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-Project Gutenberg’s Foxglove Manor, Volume II (of III), by Robert W. Buchanan

-

-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most

-other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions

-whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of

-the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at

-www.gutenberg.org.  If you are not located in the United States, you’ll have

-to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.

-

-

-

-Title: Foxglove Manor, Volume II (of III)

-       A Novel

-

-Author: Robert W. Buchanan

-

-Release Date: March 12, 2015 [EBook #48472]

-Last Updated: November 2, 2016

-

-Language: English

-

-Character set encoding: UTF-8

-

-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOXGLOVE MANOR, VOLUME II (OF III) ***

-

-

-

-

-Produced by David Widger from page images generously

-provided by the Internet Archive

-

-

-

-

-

-

-FOXGLOVE MANOR

-

-A Novel

-

-By Robert W. Buchanan

-

-In Three Volumes, Vol. I.

-

-London

-

-Chatto And Windos, Piccadilly

-

-1884

-

-

-

-

-FOXGLOVE MANOR.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER XIV. BAPTISTO STAYS AT HOME.

-

-|As Haldane sat in his study, the evening previous to the morning

-fixed for his journey to London, Baptisto entered quickly and stood

-before the desk at which his master was busily writing.

-

-“Can I speak to you, senor?” Haldane looked and nodded.

-

-“What is it, Baptisto?”

-

-“You have arranged that I shall go with you to-morrow, but I have had

-during the last few days an attack of my old vertigo. Can you possibly

-dispense with my attendance, senor?” Haldane stared in surprise at the

-Spaniards face, which was inscrutable as usual.

-

-“Do you mean to say you wish to remain at home?”

-

-“Certainly, senor.”

-

-“Why? because you are ill? On the contrary, you look in excellent

-health. No; it is impossible. I cannot get along without you.”

-

-And Haldane returned to his papers as if the matter was ended.

-

-Baptisto, however, did not budge, but remained in the same position,

-with his dark eyes fixed upon his master.

-

-“Do me this favour, senor. I am really indisposed, and must beg to

-remain.”

-

-Haldane laughed, for an idea suddenly occurred to him which seemed to

-explain the mystery of his servant’s request.

-

-“My good Baptisto, I think I understand the cause of your complaint,

-and I am sure a little travel will do you good. It is that dark-eyed

-widow of the lodge-keeper who attaches you so much to the Manor. The

-warm blood of Spain still burns in your veins, and, despite your sad

-experience of women, you are still impressionable. Eh? am I right?”

-

-Baptisto quickly shook his head, with the least suspicion of a smile

-upon his swarthy face.

-

-“I am not impressionable, senor, and I do not admire your English

-women; but I wish to remain all the same.”

-

-“Nonsense!”

-

-“Nonsense! In serious lament, senor, I beseech you to allow me to

-remain.”

-

-But Haldane was not to be persuaded at what he conceived to be a mere

-whim of his servant. He still believed that Baptisto had fallen a

-captive to the charms of Mrs. Feme, a little plump, dark-eyed woman,

-with a large family. He had frequently of late seen the Spaniard

-hanging about the lodge--on one occasion nursing and dandling the

-youngest child--and he had smiled to himself, thinking that the poor

-fellow’s misanthropy, or rather his misogynism, was in a fair way of

-coming to an end.

-

-Finding his master indisposed to take his request seriously, Baptisto

-retired; and presently Haldane strolled into the drawing-room, where

-he found his wife.

-

-“Have you heard of the last freak of Baptisto? He actually wants to

-remain at ease, instead of accompanying me in my journey.”

-

-Ellen looked up from some embroidery, in which she was busily engaged.

-

-“On no account!” she exclaimed. “If you don’t take him with you, I.

-shall not stay in the place.”

-

-“Dear me! said the philosopher. Surely you are not afraid of poor

-Baptisto!”

-

-“Not afraid of him exactly, but he makes me shiver. He comes and goes

-like a ghost, and when you least expect him, he is at your elbow.

-Then, of course, I cannot help remembering he has committed a murder!”

-

-“Nothing of the kind,” said Haldane, laughing and throwing himself

-into a chair. “My dear Ellen, you don’t believe the whole truth of

-that affair. True, he surprised that Spanish wife of his with her

-gallant, whom he stabbed; but I have it on excellent authority that it

-was a kind of duello; the other man was armed, and so it was a fair

-fight.” Ellen shuddered, and showed more nervous agitation than her

-husband could quite account for.

-

-“Take him away with you,” she cried; “take him away. If you never

-bring him back, I shall rejoice. If I had been consulted, he would

-never have been brought to England.”

-

-A little later in the evening, when Haldane had returned to his

-papers, which he was diligently finishing to take away with him, he

-rang and summoned the Spaniard to his presence.

-

-“Well, it is all settled. I have consulted your mistress, and she

-insists in your accompanying me to-morrow.”

-

-A sharp flash came upon Baptisto’s dark eyes. He made an angry

-gesture; then controlling himself, he said in a low, emphatic voice--

-

-“The _senora_ means it? _She_ does not wish me to remain?”

-

-“Just so.”

-

-“May I ask why?

-

-“Only because she does not want you, and I do. Between ourselves, she

-is not quite so certain of you as I am. She has never forgotten that

-little affair in Spain.”

-

-Again the dark eyes flashed, and again there was the same angry

-gesture, instantly checked.

-

-Haldane continued.

-

-“You are violent sometimes, my Baptisto, and madame is a little afraid

-of you. When she knows you better, as I know you, she will be aware

-that you are rational; at present----”

-

-“At present, senor,” said Baptisto, “she would rather not have me so

-near. Ah, I can understand! Perhaps she has reason to be afraid.”

-

-Something in the man’s manner, which was sinister and almost

-threatening, jarred upon his master’s mind. Rising from his chair,

-Haldane stood with his back to the fire, and, with a frown, regarded

-the Spaniard, as, he said--

-

-“Listen to me, Baptisto. I have noticed with great annoyance,

-especially of late, that your manner to madame has been strange, not

-to say sullen. You are whimsical still, and apt to take offence. If

-this goes on, if you fail in respect to your mistress, and make your

-presence uncomfortable in this house, we shall have to part.”

-

-To Haldane’s astonishment, Baptisto asked an explanation, and, falling

-on his knees, seized his master’s hand and kissed it eagerly,

-“Senor! Senor! you don’t comprehend. You don’t think I am ungrateful,

-that I do not remember? But you are wrong. I would die to save

-you--yes, I would die; and I would kill with my own hand any one who

-did you an injury. I am your servant, your slave--ah yes, till death.”

-

-“Come, get up, and go and finish packing my things.”

-

-“But, senor----”

-

-“Get up, I say.”

-

-The Spaniard rose, and with folded hands and bent head stood waiting.

-

-“Get ready like a sensible fellow, and let us have no more of this

-foolery. There, there, I understand. You are exciting yourself for

-nothing.”

-

-“Then, I am to go, senor?”

-

-“Certainly.”

-

-Early the next morning Baptisto entered the carriage with his master,

-and was driven to the railway station, some seven miles away. As they

-went along, Haldane noticed that the man looked very ill, and that

-from time to time he put his hand to his head as if in pain. At the

-railway station, while they were waiting for the train, matters looked

-most serious. Suddenly the Spaniard fell forward on the platform as

-if in strong convulsions, his eyes starting out of his head, his mouth

-foaming. They sprinkled water on his face, chafed his hands, and with

-some difficulty brought him round.

-

-“The devil!” muttered Haldane to himself. “It looks like epilepsy!”

- Baptisto was placed on a seat, and lay back ghastly pale, as if

-utterly exhausted.

-

-“Are you better now?” asked Haldane, bending over him.

-

-“A little better, senor.”

-

-But seeing him so utterly helpless, and likely to have other seizure,

-Haldane rapidly calculated in his own mind the inexpediency of taking

-him away on a long railway journey. After all, the poor fellow had not

-exaggerated his condition, when he had pleaded illness as an excuse

-for remaining at home.

-

-“After all,” said Haldane, “I think you will have to remain behind.”

-

-Baptisto opened his eyes feebly, and stretched out his hands.

-

-“No, senor; since you wish it, I will go.”

-

-“You shall remain,” answered Haldane, just as the whistle of the

-coming train was heard in the distance. “Perhaps, if you are better

-in a day or two, you can follow; but you will go away now in the

-carriage, and send over to Dr. Spruce, and he will prescribe for you.”

-

-Baptisto did not answer, but, taking his masters hand, kissed it

-gratefully. The train came up. Haldane entered a carriage, and, gazing

-from the window as the train began to move on, saw Baptisto still

-seated on the platform, very pale, his eyes half closed, his head

-recumbent. Near him stood the station master, a railway porter, and

-the groom who had driven them over from the Manor, all regarding him

-with languid curiosity.

-

-But the moment the train was gone, Baptisto began to recover. Rising

-to his feet, and refusing all offers of assistance from the others,

-he strolled out of the station, and quietly mounted the dog-cart. The

-groom got up beside him, and they drove homeward through the green

-lanes.

-

-Now, Baptisto was a gentleman, and seldom entered or tolerated

-familiarity from his fellow-servants. Had it been otherwise, the groom

-might have asked the explanation of his curious conduct; for no sooner

-was he mounted on the dogcart, and driving along in the fresh air,

-than the Spaniard seemed to forget all about his recent illness, sat

-erect like a man in perfect health, and exhibited none of the curious

-symptoms which had so alarmed his master.

-

-And when the groom, who was a thirsty individual, suggested that

-they should make a detour and call at the Blue Boar Inn for a little

-stimulant, chiefly as a corrective to the attack from which his

-companion had just suffered, the Spaniard turned his dark eyes round

-about him and actually winked. This proceeding so startled the groom

-that he almost dropped the reins, for never in the whole course of his

-sojourn had the foreign gent condescended to such a familiarity.

-

-They drove round to the Blue Boar, however, and the groom consumed the

-brandy, while Baptisto, who was a teetotaller, had some lemonade, and

-lit his cigar. Then they drove home to the Manor, Baptisto sitting

-with folded arms, completely and absolutely recovered.

-

-About noon that day, as Mrs. Haldane moved about the conservatory,

-looking after her roses, a servant announced the Rev. Mr. Santley.

-Ellen flushed, a little startled at the announcement, coming so soon

-after her husband’s departure, and her first impulse was to deny

-herself; but before she could do so the clergyman himself appeared at

-the door of the conservatory.

-

-“You are an early visitor,” she said coldly, bending her face over the

-flowers.

-

-“It is just noon,” answered the clergyman, “and I was going home from

-a sick-call. Has Mr. Haldane gone?”

-

-“Yes. Did you wish to see him?”

-

-“Not particularly, though I had a little commission which I might have

-asked him to execute had I been in time.” Surely the man’s fall had

-already begun. Ellen knew perfectly well that he was lying. In

-point of fact, he had seen the dog-cart drive past on the way to the

-station, and he had been unable to resist the temptation of coming

-over without delay.

-

-With face half averted, Ellen led the way into the drawing-room, and

-on to the terrace beyond, from which there was a pleasant view of the

-Manor, the plain, and the surrounding country. Just below the gardens

-were laid out in flowerbeds and gravel walks; but the dark shrubberies

-were beyond, and at a little distance, well in the shadow of the

-trees, the old chapel.

-

-There was a long silence. Ellen stood silent, gazing upon the woods

-and lawn, while the clergyman stood just behind her, evidently

-regarding her.

-

-At last she could bear it no longer, but, turning quickly, exclaimed--

-

-“Why did you come? Have you anything to say to me?”

-

-“Nothing, Ellen, if you are angry,” replied the clergyman.

-

-“Angry! You surely know best if I have cause. After what has passed, I

-think it is better that we should not meet,” she added in a low voice.

-“At least, not often.”

-

-He saw she was agitated, and he took a certain pleasure in her

-agitation, for it showed him that she was not quite unsusceptible to

-the influence he might bring to bear upon her. As he stood there, his

-sad eyes fixed upon her, his being conscious of every movement she

-made, of every breath she drew, he felt again the deep fatality of his

-passion, and silently yielded to it.

-

-There was another long pause, which he was the first to break.

-

-“Do you know, Ellen, I sometimes tremble for you, when I think of your

-husbands opinions. In time you may learn to share them, and then we

-should be further apart than ever. At present, it is my sole comfort

-to know you possess that living faith without which every soul is

-lost.”

-

-“Lost?” she repeated, in a bewildering way, not looking at him.

-

-“I don’t mean in the vulgar sense; the theological ideas of damnation

-have never had my sanction, far less my sympathy. But materialism

-degrades the believer, and sooner or later comes a disbelief in all

-that is holy, beautiful, and sanctified. It is a humble creed, the new

-creed of science, and fatal to spiritual hopes.”

-

-“Does it matter so much what one believes, if one’s life is good?”

-

-“It matters so much that I would rather see one I loved dead before my

-feet than an avowed unbeliever. But there, I have not come to preach

-to you. When does Mr. Haldane return?”

-

-“As I told you: in a fortnight, perhaps sooner.”

-

-“And during his absence we shall meet again, I hope?”

-

-She hesitated and looked at him. His eyes were fixed on the distant

-woods, though he stood expectantly, as if awaiting her reply, which

-did not come.

-

-“Can you not trust me?” he exclaimed. “You know I am your friend?”

-

-“I hope so; but I think it is best that you should not come here. If

-you were married, it would be different.”

-

-“I shall not marry,” he replied impatiently. “What then? I am a

-priest of God, and you may trust me fully. If our Church commenced the

-confessional, you might enter it without fear, and I--I would listen

-to the outpourings of your heart. Should you in your grief be afraid

-to utter them?”

-

-She moved away from him, turning her back; but betrayed herself. He

-saw the bright colour mount to her neck and mantle there.

-

-“What nonsense you talk!” she said presently, with a forced laugh.

-“Are you going over to Rome?”

-

-“I might go over to the evil place itself, Ellen, if _you_ were

-there.”

-

-There was no mistaking the words, the tone, in their diabolic

-gentleness, their suavity of supreme and total self-surrender. She

-felt helpless in spite of herself. The man was overmastering her, and

-rapidly encroaching. She felt like a person morally stifled, and with

-a strong effort tried to shake the evil influence away.

-

-“I was right,” she said. “We must not meet.”

-

-He smiled sadly.

-

-“As you please. I will come, or I will go, at your will. You have only

-to say to me, ‘Go and destroy yourself, obliterate yourself for ever

-from my life, blot yourself out from the roll of living beings,’ and I

-shall obey you.”

-

-Her spirit revolted more and more against the steadfast, self-assured

-obliquity of the man. She saw that he was desperate, and that the

-danger grew with his desperation. In every word he spoke, and in his

-whole manner, there was the sombre assurance of something between

-them, of some veiled, but excitable sympathy, which she herself

-utterly ignored. That moment of wild delirium, when he caught her in

-his arms and kissed her, seemed, instead of severing them, to have

-made a link between them. He had been conscious of her indignation, he

-had even professed penitence; but she saw to her dismay that the

-fact of his folly filled him, not with fear, but with courage. So she

-determined to end it once and for ever.

-

-“Let us understand each other,” she said, trembling violently. “How

-dare you talk as if there was any community of feeling between us? How

-dare you presume upon my patience, Mr. Santley? It is wretched; it is

-abominable! When you talk of killing yourself, when you assume that I

-have any serious interest in you, or any right over you, you insult

-me and degrade yourself. We are nothing, and can be nothing to each

-other.”

-

-“I know that,” he replied. “Do you think I am so mad as not to know

-that?”

-

-“Then why do you come here to torture me, and to tempt me?”

-

-The word came from her before she knew it, and her face became

-scarlet; but he uttered no protest, and raised his white hand in

-deprecation.

-

-“Tempt you? God forbid!”

-

-“I did not mean that,” she murmured, in confusion; “but you must know,

-you cannot fail to know, that it is not right for a married woman to

-receive such expressions of sympathy, however spiritual. It is that

-which makes me hate the Catholic Church. The priest promises you his

-office, and too often makes mischief under the guise of religion.”

-

-“Do you accuse me of doing so?” he demanded, in the same sad, calm

-voice.

-

-“No; but you should remember that you have not the custody of my soul,

-and I have no right to influence your actions. Come,” she continued,

-with rather a forced laugh, “talk to me like a true English clergyman.

-Tell me of the old women of the village, and their ailments; ask me

-for a subscription to give to your new soup kitchen; talk to me as

-if Mr. Haldane were listening to us--of your schools, your parish

-troubles--and you shall find me an eager listener!”

-

-“I will talk of anything, Ellen, so long as I may talk to you.”

-

-Again that manner of despairing certainty, of assured and fatal

-sympathy. The man was incorrigible.

-

-She waited impatiently for some minutes, but finding he did not speak

-again, she held out her hand.

-

-“Since you have nothing more to tell me,” she observed lightly, “I

-think I will say good morning. I am going to order the carriage and

-drive to Omberley.”

-

-“When may I come again?”

-

-“When you have anything really parochial to say to me. Please go now.”

-

-Their eyes met, and hers sank beneath his own.

-

-As he crossed towards the door it opened, and Baptisto appeared upon

-the threshold.

-

-“Did you ring, senora?”

-

-At the sight of the Spaniard’s dull impressive face Mrs. Haldane

-started violently, and went a little pale. She had heard nothing of

-his return, and he came like an apparition.

-

-“Baptisto! What are you doing here? I thought----”

-

-She paused in wonder, while the Spaniard inclined his head and bowed

-profoundly.

-

-“I was taken with a vertigo at the station, and the senor permitted me

-to return.”

-

-“Then your master has gone alone?”

-

-“Yes, senora.”

-

-“Very well. Order the carriage at once. I am going out.”

-

-Baptisto bowed and retired, quickly closing the door.

-

-Santley, who had stood listening during the above conversation, now

-prepared to follow, but, glancing at Ellen, saw that she was unusually

-agitated.

-

-“That is a sinister-looking fellow,” he remarked. “I am afraid he has

-frightened you.”

-

-“Indeed, no,” she replied; “though I confess I was startled at his

-unexpected return. Good-bye.”

-

-“Good-bye,” he said, again taking her hand and holding it up a moment

-in his own.

-

-Passing from the drawing-room, he again came face to face with

-Baptisto, who was lurking in the lobby, but who drew aside with a

-respectful bow, to allow the clergyman to pass.

-

-He crossed the hall, descended the stone steps of the portico, and

-walked slowly towards the lodge. As he passed the ruined chapel,

-its shadows seemed to fall upon his spirit and leave it in ominous

-darkness. He shivered slightly, and drew his cloak about him, then

-with his eyes cast down he thoughtfully walked on.

-

-He did not glance back. Had he done so, he would have seen Baptisto

-standing on the steps of the Manor house, watching him with a sinister

-smile.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER XV. CONJURATION.

-

-|It was a chill day in early autumn, and as Charles Santley passed

-along the dark avenue of the Manor his path was strewn here and there

-with freshly fallen leaves. Dark shadows lay on every side, and the

-heaven above was full of a sullen, cheerless light. It was just

-the day for a modern Faust, in the course of his noonday walk, to

-encounter, in some fancied guise, canine or human, the evil one of old

-superstition.

-

-Be that as it may, Santley knew at last that the hour of his

-temptation was over, and that the evil one was not far away. He

-knew it, by the sullen acquiescence of evil of his own soul; by the

-deliberate and despairing precision with which he had chosen the easy

-and downward path; by the sense of darkness which already obliterated

-the bright moral instincts in his essentially religious mind. He had

-spoken the truth when he said he would follow Ellen Haldane anywhere,

-even to the eternal pit itself. Her beauty possessed him and disturbed

-him with the joy of impure thoughts; and now that he perceived his own

-power to trouble her peace of mind, he rejoiced at the strength of his

-passion with a truly diabolic perversity.

-

-As he came out of the lodge gate he saw, far away over the fields, the

-spire of his own church.

-

-He laughed to himself.

-

-But the man’s faith in spiritual things, so far from being shaken, was

-as strong as ever. His own sense of moral deterioration, of spiritual

-backsliding, only made him believe all the more fervently in the

-heaven from which he had fallen, or might choose to fall. For it is

-surely a mistake to picture, as so many poets have pictured, the evil

-spirit as one ignorant of or insensible to good. Far wiser is the

-theology which describes Satan as the highest of angelic spirits--the

-spirit which, above all others, had beheld and contemplated the

-Godhead, and had then, in sheer revolt and negation, deliberately and

-advisedly decided its own knowledge and rejected its own truthright.

-Santley was, in his basest moods, essentially a godly man--a man

-strangely curious of the beauty of goodness, and capable of infinite

-celestial dreams. If, like many another, he confused the flesh and the

-spirit, he did no more than many sons of Eve have done.

-

-As he walked slowly along he mused, somewhat to this effect--“I

-love this woman. In her heart she loves me. Her superior spiritual

-endowments are mystically alive to those I myself possess. Her

-husband is a clod, an unbeliever, with no spiritual promptings. In

-his sardonic presence, her aspirations are chilled, frozen at the very

-fountain-head; whereas, in mine, all the sweetness and the power

-of her nature are aroused, though with a certain irritation. If I

-persist, she must yield to the slow moral mesmerism of my passion,

-and eventually fall. Is this necessarily evil? Am I of set purpose

-sinning? Is it not possible that even a breach of the moral law

-might, under certain conditions, lead us both to a higher religious

-place--yes, even to a deeper and intenser consciousness of God?”

-

-And again--“What _is_ sin? Surely it is better than moral stagnation,

-which is death. There are certain deflections from duty which, like

-the side stroke of a bird’s wing, may waft us higher. In the arms of

-this woman, I should surely be nearer God than crawling alone on the

-bare path of duty, loving nothing, hoping nothing, becoming nothing.

-What is it that Goethe says of the Eternal Feminine which lead us

-ever upward and onward? Which was the highest, Faust before he loved

-Marguerite, or Faust after he passed out of the shadow of his sin into

-the sphere of imperial and daring passion? I believe in God, I love

-this woman. Out of that belief, and that love, shall I not become a

-living soul?”

-

-Was this the man’s own musing, or rather the very devil whispering

-in his ear? From such fragmentary glimpses of his mind as have

-been given, we can at least guess the extent of his intellectual

-degradation.

-

-As he walked along the country road, his pale countenance became

-seraphic; just so may the face of Lucifer have looked when he plumed

-his wings for deliberate flight from heaven.

-

-He stepped into a roadside farm and had a glass of milk, which the

-good woman of the place handed to him with a sentiment of adoration;

-he looked so gentle, so at peace with all living things. His white

-hand rested for a moment on the head of her little girl, in gentle

-benediction. He had never felt more tenderly disposed to all creation

-than at that moment, when he was prepared to dip a pen into his

-own hearts blood, and sign the little promissory note which

-Mephistopheles carries, always ready, in his pocket. He had hated his

-congregation before; now he loved them exceedingly--and all the world.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER XVI. AT THE OPERA.

-

-|On arriving in London, George Haldane was driven straight to the

-house of an old friend at Chelsea, where he always stayed during

-his visits to the Metropolis. This friend was Lovell Blakiston, as

-eccentric a being in his own way as Haldane himself was in his. He

-had been, since boyhood, in the India Office, where he still put in

-an appearance several hours a day, and whence he still drew a large

-income, with the immediate right to a retiring pension whenever he

-choose to take it. He was a great student, especially of the pagan

-poets and philosophers; and the greater part of his days and nights

-were spent in his-old-fashioned library, opening with folding doors on

-to a quiet lawn, which led in its turn to the very river-side. He

-had two pet aversions--modern progress, in the shape of railroads,

-electricity, geology; all the new business of science and modern

-religion, especially in its connection with Christian theology. He

-was, in short, a pagan pure and simple, fond of old books, old wine,

-old meditations, and old gods. However he might differ with Haldane on

-such subjects’ as the nebular hypothesis, which he hated with all his

-heart, he agreed with him sufficiently on the subject of Christianity.

-Both had a cordial dislike for church ceremonies and church bells.

-

-The two gentlemen had another taste in common. This was the opera,

-which both enjoyed hugely, though Blakiston never ceased to regret

-the disappearance of that old operatic institution, the ballet,

-which, like a rich dessert wine, used to bring the feast of music to

-a delightfully sensuous conclusion. Haldane was too young a man to

-remember such visions of loveliness as Cerito, whom his old friend had

-often gone to see in company with Horne Took.

-

-So it happened that two or three days after his arrival, Haldane

-accompanied his host to the opera house, where Patti was to appear in

-“Traviata.”

-

-Seated comfortably in the stalls, he was glancing quietly round the

-house between the acts, when his attention was attracted to a face in

-one of the private boxes. A pale, Madonna-like, yet girlish face, set

-in golden hair, with soft blue eyes, and an expression so forlorn, so

-wistful, so ill at ease, that it was almost painful to behold.

-

-Haldane started in surprise.

-

-“What is the matter?” said his friend; “Have you recognized anybody?”

-

-“I am not certain,” returned Haldane, raising his opera-glass and

-surveying the face through them. Then, after a long look, he added’ as

-if to himself, “I am almost sure it is the same.”

-

-“Do you mean that young lady in black, seated in the second tier?”

-

-“Yes. Oblige me by looking at her, and tell me what you think of her.”

- Blakiston raised his opera-glass, and took a long look.

-

-“Well?” asked Haldane.

-

-“She reminds me of one of your detestable pre-Raphaelistic drawings,

-shockheaded and vacuous. She is pretty, I grant you, but she has no

-expression.”

-

-“I should say, on the contrary, a very marked expression of deep

-pain.”

-

-“Tight lacing,” grunted Blakiston. “Your modern women have no shape,

-since Cerito.”

-

-Here Haldane rose from his seat. Looking up again, he had met the

-young lady’s eyes, and had perceived at once that she recognized him.

-

-“I am going to speak to her,” he explained. “She is a neighbour of

-ours, and a friend of my wife.”

-

-He made his way to the second tier, and finding the door of the box

-open, he looked in, and saw the person he sought, seated in company

-with an elderly lady and a young man.

-

-“Miss Dove!” he said, advancing into the box. “Although we have only

-met twice, I thought I could not be mistaken.” Edith (for it was she)

-turned quickly and took his outstretched hand..

-

-“How strange to find you here!” she exclaimed. “Is Mrs. Haldane with

-you?

-

-“No, indeed. I left her to the pious duties of the parish, which she

-is fulfilling daily, I expect, in company with your seraphic friend

-the minister.”

-

-Edith looked at him with strange surprise, but said nothing.

-

-“When did you come to town?” he asked. “I thought you were quite

-a country young lady, and never ventured into the giddy world of

-London.”

-

-“I was not very well,” replied Edith, “and my aunt invited me to stop

-with her a few weeks. This is my aunt, Mrs. Hetherington; and this

-gentleman is my cousin Walter.” Here Edith went somewhat nervously

-through the ceremony of introduction. She added, with a slight flush,

-“My cousin insisted on bringing us here to-night. I did not wish to

-come.”

-

-“Why not?” demanded Haldane, noticing her uneasiness.

-

-“Because I did not think it right; and I have been thinking all the

-evening what the vicar will say when I tell him I have been to such a

-place.”

-

-Here the old lady shook her head ominously, and gave a slight groan.

-

-“Is the place so terrible,” asked Haldane, smiling, “now you have seen

-it?”

-

-“No, it is very pretty; and of course the singing is beautiful. But

-Mr. Santley does not approve of the theatre, and I am sorry I came.”

-

-“Nonsense, Edith,” said young Hetherington, with a laugh. “You know

-you wanted to see the ‘Traviata,’ The fact is,” he continued, turning

-to Haldane, “my mother and my cousin are both terribly old-fashioned.

-My mother here is Scotch, and believes in the kirk, the whole kirk,

-and nothing but the kirk; and as for Edith, she is entirely, as they

-say in Scotland, under the minister’s ‘thoomb.’ I thought they would

-have enjoyed themselves, but they have been doing penance all the

-evening.”

-

-Without paying attention to her cousin’s remarks, Edith was looking

-thoughtfully at Haldane.

-

-“When do you return to Omberley?” she asked.

-

-“I am not sure--in a fortnight, at the latest. I am going on to

-France.”

-

-“And Mrs. Haldane will remain all that time alone?”

-

-“Of course,” he replied. “Oh, she will not miss me. She has her

-household duties, her parish, her garden--to say nothing of her

-clergyman. And you, do _you_ stay long in London?”

-

-“I am not sure; I think not. I am tired of it already.”

-

-Again that weary, wistful look, which sat so strangely on the young,

-almost childish face. She sighed, and gazed sadly around the crowded

-house. A minute later, Haldane took his leave, and rejoined his friend

-in the stalls. Looking up at the end of the next act, he saw that the

-box was empty.

-

-The women had yielded to their consciences, and departed before the

-end of the performance.

-

-That night, when Haldane went home to Chelsea, he found a letter from

-his wife. It was a long letter, but contained no news whatever,

-being chiefly occupied with self-reproaches that the writer had not

-accompanied her husband in his pilgrimage. This struck Haldane as

-rather peculiar, as in former communications Ellen had expressed

-no such dissatisfaction; but he was by nature and of set habit

-unsuspicious, and he set it down to some momentary _ennui_. The letter

-contained no mention whatever of Mr. Santley, but in the postscript,

-where ladies often put the most interesting part of their

-correspondence, there was a reference to the Spanish valet, Baptisto.

-

-“As I told you,” wrote Ellen, “Baptisto seems in excellent health,

-though he is mysterious and unpleasant as usual. He comes and goes

-like a ghost, but if he made you believe that he was ill, he was

-imposing upon you. I do so wish you had taken him with you.”

-

-Haldane folded up the letter with a smile.

-

-“Poor Baptisto!” he thought, “I suppose it is as I suspected, and the

-little widow at the lodge is at the bottom of it all.”

-

-After a few days’ sojourn at Chelsea, during which time he was much

-interested in certain spiritualistic investigations which were

-just then being conducted by the London _savants_, to the manifest

-confusion of the spirits and indignation of true believers, Haldane

-went to Paris, where he read his paper before the French Society

-to which he belonged. There we shall leave him for a little time,

-returning to the company of Miss Dove, with whom we have more

-immediate concern.

-

-Mother and son lived in a pleasant house overlooking Clapham Common,

-a district famous for its religious edification, its young ladies’

-seminaries, and its dissenting chapels. Mrs. Hethering-ton was the

-wealthy widow of a Glasgow merchant, long settled in London, and she

-set her face rigidly against modern thought, ecclesiastical vestments,

-and cooking on the sabbath. Curiously enough, her son Walter, who

-inherited a handsome competence, was a painter, and followed his

-heathen occupation with much talent, and more youthful enthusiasm.

-His landscapes, chiefly of Highland scenes, had been exhibited in the

-Royal Scottish Academy. His mother, whose highest ideas of art were

-founded on a superficial acquaintance with the Scripture pieces of

-Noel Paton, and an occasional contemplation of biblical masterpieces

-in the Doré Gallery, would have preferred to have seen him following

-in his fathers footsteps, and even entering the true kirk as a

-preacher; but his sympathies were pagan, and a gloomy childish

-experience had not fitted him with the requisite enthusiasm for John

-Calvin and the sabbath.

-

-Walter Hetherington was a fine fresh young fellow of three and twenty,

-and belonged to the clever set of Scotch painters, headed by Messrs.

-Pettie, Richardson, and Peter Graham. He was “cannie” painstaking, and

-rather sceptical, and, putting aside his art, which he really loved,

-he felt true enthusiasm for only one thing in the world--his cousin

-Edith, whom he hoped and longed to make his wife.

-

-As a very young girl, Edith had seemed rather attached to him; but of

-late years, during which they saw each other only at long intervals,

-she seemed colder and colder to his advances. He noticed her

-indifference, and set it down somewhat angrily to girlish fanaticism,

-for he had little or no suspicion whatever that another man’s image

-might be filling her thoughts. Once or twice, it is true, when she

-sounded the praises of her Omberley pastor, his zeal, his goodness,

-his beauty of discourse, he asked himself if he could possibly have

-a rival _there_; but knowing something of the relinquent fancies of

-young vestals, he rejected the idea. To tell the truth, he rather

-pitied the Rev. Mr. Santley, whom he had never seen, as a hardheaded,

-dogmatic, elderly creature of the type greatly approved by his

-mother, and abundant even in Clapham. He had no idea of an Adonis in

-a clerical frock coat, with a beautiful profile, white hands, and a

-voice gentle and low--the latter an excellent thing in woman, but a

-dangerous thing in an unmarried preacher of the Word.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER XVII. WALTER HETHERINGTON.

-

-|When the party got home from the opera, it was only half-past ten.

-They sat down to a frugal supper in the dining-room.

-

-“I am sorry you did not wait till the last act,” said the young man,

-after an awkward silence. “Patti’s death scene is magnificent.”

-

-“I’m thinking we heard enough,” his mother replied. “I never cared

-much for play-acting, and I see little sense in screeching about in

-a foreign tongue. I’d rather have half an hour of the Reverend Mr.

-Mactavish’s discourses than a night of fooling like yon.”

-

-“What do _you_ say, Edith? I’m sure the music was very pretty.”

-

-“Yes, it was beautiful; but not knowing much of Italian, I could not

-gather what it was all about.”

-

-“It is an operatic version of a story of the younger Dumas,” explained

-Walter, with an uncomfortable sense of treading on dangerous ground.

-“The story is that of a beautiful woman who has lived an evil life,

-and is reformed through her affection for a young Frenchman. His

-friends think he is degrading himself by offering to marry her, and to

-cure him she pretends to be false and wicked. In the end, she dies

-in his arms, broken-hearted. It is a very touching subject, I think,

-though some people consider it immoral.”

-

-Here the matron broke in with quiet severity.

-

-“I wonder yon woman--Patti, you call her--doesn’t think shame to

-appear in such dresses. One of them was scarcely decent, and I was

-almost ashamed to look at her--the creature!”

-

-“But her singing, mother, her singing; was it not divine?”

-

-“It was meeddling loud; but I’ve heard far finer in the kirk. Edith,

-my bairn, you’re tired, I’m thinking. We’ll just read a chapter, and

-get to bed.”

-

-So the chapter was read, and the ladies retired, while Walter walked

-off to his studio to have a quiet pipe. He was too used to his

-mother’s peculiarities to be much surprised at the failure of the

-evening’s entertainment; but he felt really amazed that Edith had not

-been more impressed.

-

-The next morning, when they met at breakfast, Edith astonished both

-her aunt and cousin by expressing her wish to return to Omberley as

-soon as possible.

-

-“Go away already!” cried the young man. ‘“Why, you’ve hardly been

-here a week, and you’ve seen nothing of town, and we’ve all the

-picture-galleries to visit yet.”

-

-“And you have not heard Mr. Mactavish discoorse,” cried his mother.

-“No, no; you must bide awhile.”

-

-But Edith shook her head, and they saw her mind was made up.

-

-“I can come again at Christmas, but I would rather go now,” she said.

-

-“But why have you changed your mind?” inquired her cousin eagerly.

-

-“I think they want me at home; and there is a great deal of church

-work to be done in the village.”

-

-Walter was not deceived by this excuse, and tried persuasion, but it

-was of no avail. The girl was determined to return home immediately.

-He little knew the real cause of her determination. Haldane’s presence

-in London had filled her, in spite of herself, with jealous alarm.

-Ellen Haldane was alone at the Manor, with no husband’s eyes to

-trouble her; and, despite the clergyman’s oath of fidelity, Edith

-could not trust him.

-

-Yes, she would go home. It was time to put an end to it all, to remind

-Santley of his broken promises, and to claim their fulfilment. If

-he refused to do her justice, she would part from him for ever; not,

-however, without letting the other woman, her rival, know his true

-character.

-

-It was arranged that she should leave by an early train next morning.

-For the greater part of the day she kept her room, engaged in

-preparations for the journey; but towards evening Walter found her

-alone in the drawing-room. The old lady, his mother, who earnestly

-wished him to marry his cousin, had contrived to be out of the way.

-

-“I am so sorry you are going,” the young man said. “We see so little

-of each other now.”

-

-Edith was seated with her back to the window, her face in deep

-shade. She knew by her cousin’s manner that he was more than usually

-agitated, and she dreaded what was coming--what had come, indeed, on

-several occasions before. She did not answer, but almost unconsciously

-heaved a deep sigh.

-

-“Does that mean that you are sorry too?” asked Walter, leaning towards

-her to see her face.

-

-“Of course I am sorry,” she replied, with a certain constraint.

-

-“I wish I could believe that. Somehow or other, Edith, it seems to

-me that you would rather be anywhere than here. Well, you have some

-cause; for the house is dreary enough, and we are all dull people.

-But you and I used to be such friends! More like brother and sister

-than mere cousins. Is that all over? Are we to drift farther and

-farther apart as the years pass on? It seems to me as if it might come

-to that.”

-

-“How absurd you are!” said Edith, trying to force a laugh, but failing

-lamentably. “You know I was always fond of you and--and--of your

-mother.” Walter winced under the sting of the last sentence, so

-unconsciously given.

-

-“I don’t mean that at all,” he exclaimed. “Of course you liked us,

-as relations like each other; but am I never to be more to you than a

-mere cousin? You know I love you, that I have loved you ever since

-we were boy and girl; and once--ah, yes, I thought you cared for me a

-little. Edith, what does it mean? Why are you so changed?”

-

-Edith was more deeply changed than ever her cousin could guess. Had

-he been able to see her face, he would have been wonder-stricken at

-its expression of mingled shame and despair. She tried to reply; but

-before she could do so her voice was choked, and her tears began to

-fall. In a moment he was close beside her, and bending over her, with

-one hand outstretched to clasp her.

-

-“Now, you are crying. Edith, my darling, what is it?”

-

-“Don’t touch me,” she sobbed, shrinking from him. “I can’t bear it.”

-

-“Forgive me, if I have said anything to pain you; and oh, my darling!

-remember it is my love that carries me away. I do love you, Edith. I

-wish to God I could prove to you how much!”

-

-He took her hand in his; but she drew it forcibly from him, and,

-shrinking still further away, entirely losing her self-control, sobbed

-silently.

-

-“Don’t!” she exclaimed. “For pity’s sake, be silent. You do not know

-what you are saying. I am not fit to become your wife.”

-

-He moved a few steps from her, and waited until her wild, hysterical

-sobbing should have ceased. She commanded herself quickly, as it the

-wild outburst which she had not been able to control had terrified

-her. Then she rose, and would have left the room, but the young man

-stopped her.

-

-“Edith,” he said, “surely you did not mean what you said just now,

-that you are not fit to become my wife?”

-

-“Yes,” she replied quickly; “I did mean it.”

-

-She was glad that her face, was turned from him, and that the room

-was in partial darkness. She was glad that she was able to steady her

-voice, and to give a direct reply.

-

-He did not answer; she felt he was waiting for her to speak on.

-

-“Even if two people love each other,” she said, trembling, “or only

-think they do, which is too often the case, they have no right

-to thoughtlessly contract that holy tie. There cannot be perfect

-happiness in this world without perfect spiritual communion. I know--I

-feel sure--that this does not exist between you and me.”

-

-The young man flushed, and his brow contracted somewhat angrily.

-

-“Take time to think it over,” he said quickly; “this is not your own

-heart that is speaking now. The seeds which that man, your clergyman,

-has been sowing in your heart have borne fruit. Religion is changing

-your whole nature. It is alienating you hopelessly from all to whom

-you are so dear; it is making you unjust, cruelly unkind, to yourself,

-but doubly so to others, under the shallow pretence that you are

-serving God!”

-

-She did not interrupt him; but when he ceased, she put out her hand

-and said, quickly but firmly--

-

-“Good night.”

-

-“Good night,” he repeated. “It is so early, surely you are not going

-to-your room already? This is our last night together, remember.”

-

-“I am so tired,” returned the girl, wearily. “I must get a good

-night’s rest, since I am to start early in the morning.”

-

-“And you will not say another word?”

-

-“I don’t know that there is anything more that I can say.”

-

-“You are angry with me, Edith. Before you go, say at least that you

-forgive me.”

-

-“I am not angry; indeed, I am glad you have spoken. I know now I

-should never have come here. I know I must never come again.”

-

-So, without another word, they parted. Edith went up to her room.

-Walter sought his, and there he remained all the evening, sitting in

-the darkness, pondering over the unaccountable change which had taken

-place in the girl.

-

-Yes, she was changed; but was it hopeless, and altogether unexpected?

-Might she not, with gentle care, be freed from this hateful influence

-of the Church? Walter believed that might be so. Already he seemed

-to see light through the cloud, and to trace the secret of this man’s

-influence over her. Edith was imaginative and highly fanatical; he

-had appealed to her imagination. Being a High Church clergyman, he had

-employed two powerful agents--colour and form. He had scattered the

-shrine at which she worshipped with soft and durable perfumes, and had

-set up sacred symbols; and he had said, “Kneel before these; cast

-down all your worldly wishes and earthly affections.” She, being

-intoxicated, as it were, had yielded to the spell. It was part of his

-plan, thought Walter, that she must neither marry nor form any other

-earthly tie; for was it not through her, and such as her, that his

-beloved Church was able to sustain its full prestige? The Church must

-reign supreme in her heart, as it had done in that of many another

-vestal; it was at the altar alone that her gifts of love and devotion

-must be burned. She must be sacrificed, as many others had been before

-her, and the Church would stand.

-

-This was the young man’s true view of the case. He believed it, for

-he had learnt in his home to hate other worldliness; but though he

-fancied he saw the nature of the discord, he could not as yet perceive

-the directest means of cure.

-

-The next morning, when Edith, looking very pale and weary, but still

-very pretty in her simple travelling costume, came down to breakfast,

-she was a little surprised to find Walter already there. His manner

-was kind and considerate, as it had always been, and he made no

-reference whatever to what had passed between them on the previous

-night. They sat and carried on a constrained but polite conversation;

-but both were glad when it was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs.

-Hetherington. The old lady was filled with genuine regret at her

-niece’s sudden departure, and, while presiding at the breakfast-table,

-was so busy laying down plans for her speedy return that she did not

-notice that every morsel on Edith’s plate remained untouched, and

-that, while sipping her tea, her eyes wandered continually towards

-the window, as if anxiously watching for the cab which was to take her

-away. Walter noticed it with pain, and remained discreetly silent.

-

-As soon as the cab arrived, he left the room, ostensibly to

-superintend the removal of Ediths luggage, but in reality to be absent

-at the leave-taking between his mother and his cousin.

-

-He accompanied Edith to the station. It was merely an act of common

-courtesy, to which she could make no possible objection. On the

-way there was very little said on either side. She was silent from

-preoccupation, and he feared to tread on dangerous ground. But when

-they were near their parting, when Edith was comfortably seated in the

-train, and he stood by the open carriage door, he ventured in a covert

-manner to refer to what had passed.

-

-“The house will be brighter in wintertime,” he said, “and we shall have

-more means of amusing you. You will come back at Christmas, Edith?”

-

-She started, dropped his hand, and drew herself from him.

-

-“No, I think not,” she said; “it is always a busy time with us at

-Christmas. There is much to be done in the church.”

-

-This was their good-bye; for before he could say more the guard

-noisily closed the carriage doors, and whistled shrilly. Mechanically

-Walter took off his hat, and stood sadly watching the train as it

-moved away.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER XVIII. CHURCH BELLS--AND A DISCORD.

-

-|Edith was glad that the next day was Sunday. She rose early, dressed

-hurriedly, and went for a walk in the fresh morning air. She felt

-instinctively that she had a battle to fight, and that all her

-resources must be brought into play to gain her the victory. If her

-influence over the man was to continue, she knew there was one way by

-which she could regain it. With such pale cheeks and lacklustre eyes

-as she had brought with her from London, where, she asked, would her

-chances be against Ellen Haldane’s fresh country charms? She must

-banish all painful thoughts for the present, and try to win back the

-roses which he had caused to fade.

-

-She walked for above an hour; and when she returned home, she went

-straight into the garden to gather a little bouquet of flowers. Then

-she went up to her room to dress for church. When she came down to

-breakfast, she wore her prettiest costume, and the bunch of flowers

-was fastened at her throat.

-

-Her aunt had a headache, she said, and could not go to church. Edith

-was not sorry; indeed, when the time came for her to set out, she was

-glad she was alone.

-

-She arrived at the church rather earlier than usual, nevertheless she

-walked straight in, and no sooner had she crossed the threshold than

-she obeyed a sudden impulse which seized her, and determined for that

-day at least not to occupy her usual seat. She selected one which was

-some distance from the pulpit, but from which she could command an

-excellent view of the pew belonging to Foxglove Manor.

-

-The congregation gathered, but the Haldane’s pew was empty. Edith

-watched it with feverish impatience. Presently, just as the tolling

-bell was about to cease, she saw Mrs. Haldane enter and take her seat.

-

-Two minutes later, Mr. Santley, clothed in his white, priestly robes,

-ascended the steps of the reading-desk, and bent his beautiful head

-in prayer. As he rose to his feet, Edith, who had been watching him

-in extreme fascination, saw his gaze wandering round the church, and

-finally fix upon the face of the mistress of Foxglove Manor. She

-saw, or thought she saw, the lady’s eyelids quiver and finally droop

-beneath that glance; while the clergyman arose, like a sick man

-suddenly restored to health, and began to read the lessons for the

-day.

-

-How that morning passed Edith scarcely knew. She remained like one in

-a dream, mechanically going though the religious forms, but feeling as

-if her heart’s blood was slowly ebbing away. Of one thing only she was

-conscious--that of all those upturned faces before him the clergyman

-seemed to see but one, but that from this one face seemed to draw his

-inspiration, as the earth draws life and light from the shining rays

-of the sun.

-

-At length the service was over, the congregation dispersed, and Edith

-found herself walking up and down the quiet lanes alone, panting for

-air, feeling sick at heart, and shivering through and through, though

-she stood in the warm rays of sunlight. Go home she could not. She

-must see Mr. Santley before she could face another human soul.

-

-She turned, intending to go to the Vicarage, but when she was yet

-within some distance of the house, she saw coming towards her the very

-man she sought.

-

-She paused, not knowing whether to feel glad or sorry. It was

-certainly better than having to go to the Vicarage, yet now that the

-meeting was so near, she shrank from it. She made a desperate effort

-to compose herself, and paused, waiting for him. The clergyman was

-evidently lost in deep thought, his head was bent, his eyes were fixed

-on the ground, and he was quite close to Edith before he saw her.

-

-When their eyes met he paused, almost involuntarily, a momentary

-flush of mingled annoyance and surprise passed over his face, then he

-recovered himself, walked forward, and quietly extended his hand.

-

-“Miss Dove!” he said, glancing nervously round. “I had no idea you

-were at home. How do you do?”

-

-It had been agreed between them, long before, that so long as their

-secret remained a secret, no warmer greeting than this must be

-exchanged between them in public. When the proposition had been made,

-Edith had quietly assented. What was it to her that Santley should bow

-his head with a politeness even more frigid than he bestowed upon any

-one of his flock. Had she not seen the burning light of love in his

-half-lowered eyes? and had she not known that a few hours later she

-would feel his caressing arms about her, and hear his rich, mellow

-voice whispering tenderly in her ear?

-

-But now all was changed. The frigid bow which had formerly been the

-prologue, had rapidly developed into the play. There were no stolen

-meetings now; no consoling whisperings. The clergyman had latterly

-become alive to the risk of such indulgences, and had gradually

-allowed them to cease; and Edith, receiving as her portion the cold

-bow and cold handshake that every eye might have seen, had watched the

-love light gradually fade from her hero’s eyes.

-

-But she had never seen him so cold as to-day. When their eyes had met,

-she had noticed the look of positive annoyance which had passed across

-his face. It had soon fled, but when he spoke and extended his hand,

-his face had assumed a look of cold severity.

-

-Edith did not speak; the painful beating of her heart almost stifled

-her, and her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. She extended her

-hand; the cold, listless touch of his fingers throbbed through her

-like ice. The clergyman saw her trouble, and again that look of

-impatient annoyance passed across his face then he raised his brows in

-calm surprise.

-

-“What is the matter?” he asked quickly. “Has some domestic trouble

-caused your sudden return home?”

-

-She withdrew her hand from his cold, lax fingers, and answered, “No.”

-

-Then she turned and walked along in silence by his side.

-

-The good man was annoyed, seriously annoyed. First at her sudden

-appearance in the village, when he believed she was safely bestowed in

-London for several weeks to come; next at the _rôle_ she thought

-fit to assume. He hated scenes at any time; just now he particularly

-wished to avoid one. So he walked on in silence, until he could

-command his voice to speak quietly; then he said, in the most careless

-manner possible--

-

-“_When_ did you return home?”

-

-“Last night. I attended church this morning.”

-

-She looked at him quickly, to see what effect her words produced.

-Apparently they produced none. The clergymans face remained as coldly

-impassive as before; he raised his brows slightly as he replied.

-

-“Indeed! I did not see you there.” Then, after a pause, he added,

-“Your return was very sudden, was it not? I thought you intended

-staying away for some time.”

-

-“I changed my mind. I thought you would have been glad to have me back

-again.”

-

-Then, swept on by a wild impulse, which she could not possibly

-restrain, she added slowly, but tremulously--

-

-“Charles, are you _sorry_ I have come?”

-

-The clergyman started, flushed, then quickly recovered himself, as he

-added--

-

-“Sorry, my dear Edith? What a question! Why of course I am not sorry.”

-

-“Then, why not say that you are glad? Why not let me know it? Don’t you

-see you are breaking my heart?”

-

-Santley paused, and looked at her. He did not flush this time,

-his face grew white as marble, his eyes quite steel-like in their

-coldness. He had dreaded a scene, but this was so very much worse than

-he had expected; for by this time Edith had lost all self-control, and

-was sobbing violently. His face hardened terribly. He must put an end

-once and for ever to such unpleasant encounters.

-

-“Edith, have you lost your senses?” he said; and the bitterness of his

-tone was like putting a knife into the girl’s heart. “If you wish to

-perform in such scenes as this, you could surely find some other time

-and place than the public road and the broad daylight. If you have

-anything to say to me, you must come to me again in private. At

-present I have no more time which I can place at your service. I have

-business with Mrs. Haldane, who is waiting for me at the Vicarage; and

-my duties at the church will soon begin again.”

-

-He raised his hat, and would have moved away, but Edith laid her hand

-upon his arm and forcibly detained him.

-

-“Stop!” she cried. “One word! You shall not go. I must speak.”

-

-He turned upon her almost angrily; he attempted, but in vain, to shake

-off her detaining hand.

-

-“Tell me,” she cried; “why are you going to meet Mrs. Haldane?” Then,

-before he could recover from his astonishment sufficiently to speak,

-she added, “You need not tell me, for I _know_. It is this woman who

-has come between you and me. Oh, do you think I don’t know that since

-she came to the village you have been a changed man? What did I come

-home for? Because I knew it was not right that you and she should be

-in the village _alone_.”

-

-This time the clergyman succeeded in shaking off her hand. The face

-which he turned towards hers was almost livid in its pallor.

-

-“You forget yourself,” he said, with a sternness which was even harder

-to bear than bitter reproach. “Well, I suppose you think you have a

-right to insult me; but permit me to remind you that your right does

-not extend to religious affairs, or to a lady who is the most esteemed

-member of my congregation.”

-

-“I have not insulted you, Charles; I am only warning you.”

-

-“You are very kind,” he interposed, with a sneer, “but I am, in no

-greater need of your warning than is the lady. Until you can learn how

-to control your own words and actions, it would be better for _you_

-that we should not meet.” Again he moved, as if about to leave her;

-again she put forth her hand, and held him fast. The scene had become

-more violent than she had intended. It was now too late to pause.

-

-“One more word,” she sobbed. “Promise me that you will not see her,

-then I will promise never to mention this subject again.”

-

-“Promise you what? To discontinue all communications with Mrs.

-Haldane?”

-

-“Yes, yes; that is all. It is not much to ask you.”

-

-“It is much more than you have any right to ask. You have chosen to

-connect my name dishonourably with a lady whom I esteem. Enough!

-I cannot control your actions, but I mean to regulate my own. Good

-morning, Edith. Since you have nothing more important to say to me, I

-suppose I am at liberty to go?”

-

-He raised his hat and walked away, pausing a minute later to raise

-it again, and to address some pleasant remark to a member of his

-congregation, who happened at that moment to be coming along the

-road. It was the sight of this stranger which prevented Edith from

-following, which made her turn and walk with rapid steps towards her

-home. She felt cold and sick and heart-broken, and she shrank from the

-sight of any human face.

-

-When she reached her home, she found her aunt, who had been surprised

-at her protracted absence, gazing uneasily up and down the road. The

-sight of the girl’s pale, tear-stained face alarmed her, but Edith

-silenced her inquiries by declaring that she had not been very well.

-

-“It was foolish of me, but I could not help crying at the service,”

- she said. “Dear aunt, do not be anxious. I am better now, and only

-want rest.”

-

-“Shall I send you up some dinner, darling?”

-

-“No; nothing. I want to be alone--quite alone.”

-

-So, with a weary, listless look upon her, the girl went up to her

-room, and, having locked the door, she threw herself upon the bed, and

-cried as if her heart were broken.

-

-Meanwhile Mr. Santley went on his way, almost as much disturbed as

-Edith herself. He was angry, terribly angry; for if scenes similar

-to the one through which he had passed were allowed to continue, he

-anticipated a storm of troubles in the future. But how to avoid them?

-What would be the best and safest course to adopt? The good man was

-terribly perplexed. To openly defy the girl might cause her, in her

-bitterness and pain, to expose herself and him; which would certainly

-be awkward, since he wished, above all things, to stand well with

-his congregation. And yet to adopt any other course, he must at

-least pretend to subscribe to her conditions. He must be content to

-renounce, or pretend to renounce, his intimacy with Mrs. Haldane. The

-man of God was justly indignant.

-

-Such a course, he knew, must not be thought of, and he resolved with

-pious determination to continue Ellen Haldane’s conversion, for which

-he was so zealous and to leave matters between himself and Edith

-exactly as they were.

-

-He knew the girl’s disposition. She would soon acknowledge her folly,

-and make the first advances towards reconciliation. Well, then he

-would be inclined to meet her half-way, but she must be the first to

-move. If, on the other hand, she chose to take the unpleasant course

-of exposing him, why, he would have but one alternative: he would

-simply deny her statements, and who would believe her? It would be an

-unpleasant phase of experience to have to pass through, and it would

-compel him to sacrifice a fellow-creature.

-

-Nevertheless, he acknowledged to himself, with the air of a Christian

-martyr, that if she pushed him to extremities it would be necessary.

-

-After all, he hoped that Edith, shut up with her own grief, in the

-solitude of her own room, would soon be brought to see the error of

-her ways, and would make that first advance towards reconciliation

-which was necessary for the peace of mind of both.

-

-But, whatever might happen in the future, Edith had succeeded for that

-day at least in completely destroying the good mans peace of mind. His

-agitation was so great that he was compelled to walk about the quiet

-lanes until his tranquillity was somewhat restored. Then he returned

-to the Vicarage, where Mrs. Haldane was comfortably seated with

-his sister, and enjoyed her society until the hour of his labours

-returned.

-

-When he entered the church that afternoon, all the congregation

-thought he was looking more seraphic than ever. Many a young heart

-fluttered with holiness, and many an eyelid drooped reverently, before

-the calm serenity of his gaze. As he stood facing his people, he cast

-his eyes around the church. Edith was not there.

-

-He turned the leaves of his gold-clasped volume, and as his rich voice

-filled the church, and the congregation rose, he gazed once more about

-him. This time his cheek flushed slightly, and a soft sigh of relief

-and happiness escaped his parted lips. Mrs. Haldane was again in her

-place, calmly joining in the prayers.

-

-That afternoon the clergyman preached like one inspired; all were

-impressed but none were cognizant of the cause. Though the clergyman’s

-eyes wandered continually around the church, he saw only one face, was

-conscious only of one presence. So engrossed was he, and so wrapped up

-in his fervour of admiration, that he did not notice what was going on

-around him. Had he done so, he would have seen that there was another

-member of the congregation besides Mrs. Haldane who attracted a

-certain amount of interest. Seated in the gallery, calmly joining in

-the service and watching the minister, was the foreign “gentleman with

-the eyes.”

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER XIX. HE IS BUT A LANDSCAPE PAINTER

-

-|After Edith’s departure from London, Walter Hetherington thought

-long and deeply over the mysterious change in his cousin. The more

-he thought, the more uneasy he grew. Of one thing he felt tolerably

-sure--that the girl had got into the hands of, a religious fanatic,

-who either consciously or unconsciously was completely destroying

-himself, his happiness--in this world at least. She was fairly

-possessed by the fever of other worldliness, he said to himself, and

-if left alone she would, like many others before her, probably end her

-days in a mad house.

-

-Having arrived at this enlightened conclusion, which was chiefly based

-on what Edith had herself told him, Walter determined that she should

-not be left alone. What would be more rational, he said to himself,

-than that he should pack up his sketching paraphernalia and pay a

-short visit to the picturesque little village where his aunt and

-cousin lived? Surely Edith would be glad to see him, and while he

-remained to watch over her, his time would not be entirely lost.

-

-When he told his mother of his determination to revisit the

-country, the old lady was unfeignedly glad. She suspected, from the

-unaccountable sudden departure of the girl, that the two young people

-had had a quarrel, and she was glad to see her son was magnanimous

-enough to make the first advances towards reconciliation. So she

-helped him to put a few things together, and on the spur of the moment

-he started off.

-

-He had written neither to his cousin nor aunt to tell them of his

-coming.

-

---He had intended sending a telegram from the station, but at the

-last moment he changed his mind, and as he sat in the train which was

-rapidly whirling him onward, he began to ask himself whether it would

-be judicious of him to go to his aunt’s house at all. To be sure, he

-had always made it his head-quarters; but now things were changed.

-Edith had left his mother’s house to avoid _him_; would it be fair to

-either of them that he should become his aunt’s guest? By living in

-the house he would force from her a communication which might be very

-grudgingly given, and at the same time his lips must be inevitably

-sealed. He finally decided that, during the visit at least, it would

-be better for every one that he should stay at the inn.

-

-So on arriving at the station he drove to the inn, secured at a cheap

-price a couple of cosy rooms, and determined to delay calling upon his

-relations until the following day.

-

-The next day was fine, a fit day for an artist to lounge, dream,

-perhaps work. Walter hung about the inn till midday; then he took his

-sketch-book under his arm, and strolled forth in the direction of his

-aunt’s cottage. When he reached the door, and was about to knock, it

-was suddenly opened by Edith, dressed in walking costume.

-

-On coming thus unexpectedly face to face with her cousin, she looked

-manifestly angry.

-

-“Walter, you here?” she said coldly; then she added quickly, “Is

-anything the matter at home?”

-

-“Nothing whatever,” said Walter, quietly giving his hand, and taking

-no notice whatever of the irritation so plainly visible on her face.

-“I got tired of London, that was all, and thought a few days in the

-country might do me good. I am not going to bore _you_. I have brought

-my working tools down with me, and mean to take some sketches back.”

-

-“But where is your luggage?”

-

-“Down at the inn.”

-

-“At the inn?”

-

-“Yes; I had it taken direct there last night. I was fortunate enough,

-too, to secure rooms--a capital little parlour fit for a studio, and

-a bedroom leading out of it. I shall be able to do the host, and

-entertain you, if you’ll come.”

-

-“You are going to stay at the inn?” said Edith. “You always stayed

-with _us_ before!”

-

-“Of course I did; but I am not going to be so inconsiderate as to

-plant myself upon you _now_.”

-

-He laid the slightest possible stress upon the “now,” and Edith

-understood; nevertheless, she deemed it prudent to affect ignorance

-and read a different meaning in his words. She murmured something

-about being very much occupied, and having little time to attend to

-visitors; then led the way across the hall to their sitting-room, and

-brought him into the presence of his aunt.

-

-Mrs. Russell welcomed him cordially, but when she heard of his

-domestic arrangements, her face went very blank indeed. She used every

-argument in her power to persuade the young man to change his mind,

-and to have his luggage brought up to the cottage. Walter, eager to

-accept her kindness, was listening for one word from Edith. It never

-came, and he expressed his intention to remain at the inn.

-

-But, although he abided by his former decision and remained _en

-garçon_ at the inn, a very great part of his time was spent at the

-cottage. The old lady, anxious to atone for the inhospitable behaviour

-of her niece, altered all her household arrangements to suit the

-erratic habits of the young painter. The heavy midday meal was

-replaced by a light luncheon; while for the light supper at six was

-substituted a substantial dinner, to which Walter was always bidden.

-On the afternoon of that day, when the young man had first made his

-appearance at the cottage, a rather unpleasant interview had taken

-place between the aunt and niece, almost the first which had come to

-ruffle the peaceful course of their evenly flowing lines. The old

-lady had been indignant at the coolness of Edith’s reception, and had

-accused the girl of inhospitality and ingratitude; while Edith had

-coolly given it as her opinion that the young man was much better

-located elsewhere.

-

-“It is a tax to have a visitor always in the house, aunt,” said Edith,

-quietly; “and--and I haven’t the strength to bear it, I think.”

-

-Mrs. Russell looked up, and was surprised to find that the girl, after

-bearing her reproaches so mildly, was now actually crying. She

-noted again, too, with a start of shocked surprise how sadly she had

-changed. The fresh, bright beauty which had once charmed every eye

-had gone, leaving scarcely a trace behind it, and the face was pale,

-careworn, and sad. She got up and kissed her, and that silent caress

-did more than a dozen reproaches. It made Edith hurriedly leave the

-room, to cast herself, crying bitterly, upon the bed, while Mrs.

-Russell sat down and wrote a note to Walter.

-

-“You shall have your own way about staying at the inn,” she wrote,

-“and you shall also have every possible hour of the day that you can

-make use of for your work; but surely you can spare your evenings for

-us. I have arranged to dine every day at six, and I beg of you, for

-Edith’s sake, to make one of the party. Dear Edith is far from well,

-and sadly changing. She sees so few people, and the house is dull.

-Dear Walter, come often, for her sake if not for mine.”

-

-Thus it happened that every night, when the little dining-room was

-laid out for dinner, Walter made his appearance at the cottage door,

-and that during those evening hours the family party was increased to

-three. Sometimes they left the dinner-table to lounge in the pretty

-little drawing-room, where Walter was permitted to smoke his cigar,

-while the old lady worked at wool-work, and Edith played to them in

-the slowly gathering darkness. Sometimes they strolled out on to the

-lawn, and had the tea brought out, and laughed and chatted while they

-watched the stars appear one by one in the heavens. Was it fancy, or

-since these social evenings commenced was Edith really changed’ for

-the better? Walter fancied that her eye was brighter, her cheek less

-pale, and that her manner towards himself was sometimes very tender,

-as if she wished in a measure to atone for her past coldness. This

-was particularly noticeable one night when the two sat alone in the

-drawing-room.

-

-Mrs. Russell, murmuring something about household affairs, had left

-them together. Walter was reclining in an armchair, smoking his cigar

-and watching his cousin, who was busily engaged embroidering crosses

-upon a handsome altar-cloth, intended for the decoration of the

-church.

-

-“These have been pleasant evenings,” he said--“pleasant for me, that

-is. I shall be sorry enough when they come to an end.”

-

-Edith looked up and smiled sadly.

-

-“If we always had pleasure it would become a pain,” she said. “Though

-we rebel against pain and suffering, it is, after all, a very great

-boon to the world.”

-

-“Humph! Perhaps so, if it were better distributed. What about the poor

-creatures whose portion is only pain?--who, to put it vulgarly, get

-all the kicks, and none of the halfpence?”

-

-“In this world, you should have said, Walter. Let us hope their

-measure of happiness will be greater in the world that is to come.”

-

-Walter was silent. The conversation had taken precisely the turn which

-he would have avoided, and he was wondering how to bring it to the

-subject which was for ever uppermost in his mind. For a time he

-remained in a brown study. Edith stitched on. Then he rose, took a few

-turns about the room, and stopped near to her chair.

-

-“Edith,” he said quietly, “do you know why I came down here?”

-

-Something in his tone rather than his words made her start and flush

-painfully. She did not raise her eyes or cease her work. Before she

-could answer, he had taken her hand.

-

-“I came for _you_, Edith,” he continued passionately. “Listen to me,

-my darling. Do not answer hastily, if you cannot give me a decided

-answer. At least let me hope.”

-

-Decidedly yet tremblingly the girl put his hands from her, and half

-rose from her seat. His words had frozen her to ice again.

-

-“Why _did_ you come here?” she said. “Do you call it manly or kind to

-persecute me? I tell you I shall never marry.”

-

-As she spoke her eye fell upon the altar-cloth, which she held in her

-hand: Walter saw the look, and as he was walking back to the inn that

-night it recurred to his mind again. The altar-cloth! There was the

-symbol of the thing which had come between them--which was blighting

-his life and hers. Edith was changing; but she was not utterly

-changed. He resolved to do the only thing which now remained to be

-done. He determined to appeal to her spiritual adviser.

-

-All night his mind was filled with this idea; it troubled his sleeping

-as well as his waking moments, and when he rose in the morning it

-was the one thing which possessed him. Now, he had never seen

-the clergyman, but he had pictured him as a middle-aged,

-benevolent-looking man, perhaps with spectacles; a gentle fanatic

-in religion, willing, through the very bigotry of his nature, to

-sacrifice everything for the good of the Church, but still, perhaps,

-amiable. He might be open to reason, and an appeal made directly to

-him might be the means of putting an end to all the trouble.

-

-Breakfast over, the young man issued from the inn, and strolled

-deliberately through the village in the direction of the Vicarage.

-It was early in the day to make a call, so he walked very slowly,

-meditating as he went on the nature of his errand; and the course he

-was about to take, after what had passed between him and his cousin,

-was, perhaps, a little unwarrantable, and Edith might be inclined to

-resent it if she knew. But then, he reflected, she need never know.

-Mr. Santley would surely grant him the favour of keeping the matter

-a secret; and afterwards, when the shadow of the Church had ceased to

-darken her life, and she was happy with him in her married home, she

-would be glad to hear that it was he who had saved her.

-

-These were the kind of rose-coloured visions which filled his brain as

-he walked on towards the Vicarage, and by the time he had reached the

-hall door and pulled the bell, he had even converted Mr. Santley into

-the good fairy of the tale, or rather a sort of Father Christmas, in

-a surplice, smiling benevolently upon them and pairing their hands. A

-trim little servant came to the door, and, in answer to his inquiries,

-informed him that Mr. Santley was not at home. He was expected in

-immediately, however, if the gentleman would like to wait.. Yes;

-Walter would wait. So he followed the little maid across the hall,

-into a somewhat chilly but sufficiently gorgeous room, which was

-reserved solely for the comfort and convenience of Mr. Santley’s

-guests. As Walter sank down into an easy-chair, the arms of which

-seemed to enfold him in a close embrace, and looked about the room, he

-acknowledged that Mr. Santley at least did not give all his substance

-to the poor. Here at least there was no appearance of penury, or of

-sackcloth and ashes; all was comfortable and luxurious in the extreme.

-He walked about the room; examined the books upon the tables, which

-were all works of education, elegantly bound; noticed the engravings

-on the walls--one or two of Raphael’s Madonnas (coloured copies), and

-an old engraving after Andrea del Sarto. Mr. Santley did not come. He

-rang the bell, gave the little maid his card, told her he would call

-again, and left the Vicarage.

-

-This time he walked in the direction of the schoolhouse. He had his

-sketchbook under his arm, and in it a half-finished sketch of the

-schoolmistress’s picturesque home. He would fill up his spare time by

-adding a few touches to the sketch before he returned to the Vicarage.

-

-In this matter fortune favoured him. It being Saturday afternoon,

-there was no school, and the schoolmistress was leaning in a listless

-attitude upon the low trellised gate. She welcomed the young painter

-with a nod and a bright smile, and readily assented to his proposition

-that she should stand for the figure in the picture. He took out his

-book and set to work.

-

-Dora meanwhile chatted and laughed to make the time pass pleasantly,

-and sometimes, in answer to an invitation from him, she would run

-round the easel to take a peep at the figure of herself, which was

-gradually growing under his hand. At last their pleasant interview

-was brought to an end. Walter remembered the appointment which

-this chattering lady had made him forget. He put up his sketching

-materials, and prepared to take his leave. Then Dora stopped him.

-

-“Surely, Mr. Hetherington, you will do me one favour,” she said: “you

-will honour me by stepping for a moment into the cottage which you

-have transferred so beautifully to paper. I have some cream and milk,

-some fresh strawberries from our garden, if that is any inducement to

-you.”

-

-The invitation was tempting. Nevertheless, Walter, while wishing to

-accept, was about to refuse, pleading an engagement at the Vicarage

-when another voice broke in--

-

-“Good day, Miss Greatheart!” it said.

-

-The schoolmistress smiled, made a prim curtsey, and answered, “Good

-day, sir!” Then she waited to see if her visitor had anything more to

-say.

-

-The new arrival was a man, and Walter, who was looking at him, thought

-he was the handsomest man he had ever seen in his life. He was dressed

-as a clergyman, but the cut of his garments-was elegant and eminently

-becoming. As his eye fell upon Walter he raised his hat, and

-discovered a head beautifully shaped and slightly thinning at the

-temples. Walter remained fascinated, staring at the man, who moved

-here and there with easy grace, and whose face grew singularly

-handsome with every varying expression which flitted across it.

-

-He had not much to say to the schoolmistress; and as he moved away

-his hat was again swept off to Walter, and the clergyman’s eyes rested

-upon him for a moment with a look one might love to paint in the eyes

-of a saint.

-

-Walter turned to Miss Greatheart.

-

-“A handsome fellow,” he said, “--a very handsome fellow; and a

-clergyman, I see, by his dress. Who is he? One of Mr. Santley’s

-curates, I suppose?”

-

-The schoolmistress stared at him for a moment in amazement.

-

-“One of Mr. Santley’s curates!” she said. “Why, my dear sir, that is

-our vicar himself!”

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER XX. IN THE GLOAMING.

-

-|It was now Walters turn to look amazed.

-

-“That Mr. Santley!” he said. “Why, he is quite a young man!”

-

-“Of course he is--and handsome as good, and good as handsome. But

-won’t you come in, Mr. Hetherington, and have some refreshment? It is

-two hours quite since you opened out your sketch-book at the gate!”

-

-This time Walter accepted her invitation, and followed her into the

-quaint little parlour, where most of her days were spent. The little

-maid who attended to the house had got a holiday with the children,

-and Dora was left to attend to herself that day. Walter was glad of

-it, since he was left free to sit by the window and follow the train

-of his thoughts, while Dora busied herself spreading the snowy cloth

-upon the table, and setting forth her simple fare. When it was ready,

-he came to the table and ate some strawberries and drank some milk,

-thinking all the while of Mr. Santley. Presently he spoke of him.

-

-“You have known Mr. Santley some time, Miss Greatheart?” he said.

-

-“I was schoolmistress here when he came.”

-

-“He is a very good man, you said?”

-

-“Yes, indeed. But it stands to reason that a man with Mr. Santley’s

-gifts must be very good indeed not to get spoiled. In justice to at

-least half of his congregation, he ought to marry.”

-

-“Why, pray?”

-

-“Why? If he had arrived here with a wife, many a young girl in the

-village would have been saved a severe heartache. He is a prize in the

-matrimonial lottery well worth striving for. He is idolized by every

-female in the village. Now, it is certain he cannot marry them all,

-and on the day when the happy one is chosen, fancy the hearts that

-will break!”

-

-“Yours amongst the number?”

-

-“No, sir; I am happy to say I am free. But I take no credit to myself

-on that account. If I had been idle like some of the young ladies

-here, there might have been another victim added to the list; but I

-have so much to do in the school, I have no time to think about the

-vicar,” she added. “Have you heard him preach, Mr. Hetherington?”

-

-“No, not yet.”

-

-“Ah, you must go to the church tomorrow. He speaks magnificently, and

-looks a picture in his robes; besides, his sister, Miss Santley, told

-me he will wear for the first time to-morrow a new surplice and a

-magnificent embroidered band, which has been worked for him by Miss

-Dove!”

-

-At the mention of his cousin’s name Walter felt his face flush and

-his heart leap; but he made no direct reply. He went on eating his

-strawberries, and turned his face to the open window, as he said--

-

-“What have you made for him, Miss Greatheart?”

-

-“I? Oh, nothing! He has so many beautiful presents from the young

-ladies in the village that he has no need of them from me, even if I

-had the time to make them, which I have not; all day I am teaching in

-the school, and all the evening I am busy preparing lessons for the

-following day.”

-

-“Have you always lived here?”

-

-“Not always. My mother was a prison matron at Preston, and we

-lived together until she died, several years ago; then, through the

-influence of some friends, I got this place, and have lived here ever

-since!”

-

-“Working and striving,” added Walter; “finding pleasure in things

-which to some would mean only trouble and irritation. During the

-holidays do you ever come to London, Miss Greatheart?”

-

-“No; I generally remain here.”

-

-“From choice?”

-

-“Not at all. I should like a change; but then, to go alone to a city

-where you have no friends, and to parade crowded streets alone, is a

-holiday which I should not enjoy.”

-

-Walter rose to go.

-

-“You will come back and finish the sketch on Monday, perhaps?” said

-Dora.

-

-“I shall be glad to; I should like, above all, to finish the figure

-leaning on the gate.”

-

-“Then you must come in the evening. I promise to give you an hour

-after school hours.”

-

-Then Walter shook hands with her and left, taking the way to the inn

-instead of to the Vicarage. He would make no appeal to the clergyman.

-The sight of Mr. Santley, so different to the benevolent, elderly

-gentleman of his imagination, had decided him on that point; it had

-also brought with it other trouble, for it threw an entirely new light

-on Edith’s religious fervour.

-

-Was it, then, the man or the church, infatuation or fanaticism? He

-asked himself the question for the first time. Was Edith among the

-mass of simple girls who were breaking their hearts for his sake?

-Probably. It remained now for him to watch her, and ascertain the

-truth.

-

-He went up to the cottage that evening, and regarded Edith with quite

-a new light in his eyes. She also seemed changed. Her manner was

-restless and ill at ease; her cheek was flushed. All through the

-dinner she scarcely touched any food, but glanced furtively at her

-aunt and cousin.

-

-When the dinner was over, they all retired to the drawing-room as

-usual.

-

-Here Ediths restlessness asserted itself more strongly. Instead of

-sitting quietly to her work, as was her usual custom, she flitted

-restlessly about the room. Presently she declared that she had a

-terrible headache, and wished her cousin “good night.”

-

-“I have been trying to bear it,” she said, “but it gets worse instead

-of better. You will excuse me for to-night, Walter, will you not?”

-

-As he took her hand and held it for a moment in his, he felt that it

-was trembling and very hot. He scarcely believed in the headache,

-but he deemed silence the most prudent course; so he wished her “good

-night” without more ado.

-

-Her aunt rose to go with her to her room, but permission to do so was

-firmly refused.

-

-“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.

-

-“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.

-

-“Is it you, Edith? Quick! Is it you?”

-

-His quick ear had caught the rustle of her dress on the grass. Even as

-the words left his lips came the eager answer.

-

-“Yes, Charles; I have come!” And the girl, forgetting all their

-quarrels, leapt with a glad cry into his arms.

-

-For a time no words were spoken. After that one cry of joy, Edith

-had laid her head upon his shoulder and sobbed as if her heart would

-break. At this manifestation of hysteria, Santley was not altogether

-pleased; but he could say nothing, so he clasped his arms firmly about

-her, and tried to soothe her sorrow. When at last Edith lifted her

-head from his shoulder he kissed her lips, and whispered to her so

-gently that the girl’s heart beat as gladly as it had done the first

-day that words like these had been spoken.

-

-“There, there,” said the good man, kissing her again, and patting her

-head like that of a spoilt child. “You are better now, my darling; and

-remember you must not quarrel with me again. You were breaking your

-little heart for nothing at all.”

-

-Part of the girls emotion had communicated itself to him; and for

-the time being, while he stood there holding her to him, feeling

-her breath upon her cheek, her clinging arms about his neck, he felt

-almost as passionately disposed as he had done the first day that

-he told her of his love. As for Edith, a serene happiness and

-peace seemed to enter into her soul. They stood thus for some time,

-exchanging whispered words and fond embraces; then the clergyman told

-her she had better go. A spot or two of rain had fallen, and the sky

-was clouding over as if for a storm.

-

-“Will you play the organ to-morrow, Edith?” he asked, as they moved

-away together.

-

-“Yes, if you wish it.”

-

-“I do wish it, Edith; for when you are playing, it seems as if you

-were helping me with my work.”

-

-Sweet words! She said nothing, but the hand which lay in his pressed

-his fondly, and he knew that she was pleased.

-

-“And will you come to the Vicarage to-morrow afternoon, and have tea

-with us? I shall be so glad if you will!”

-

-He did not add that his sister, wondering all the week at Edith’s

-non-appearance, had threatened repeatedly to call at the cottage, when

-she would doubtless have elicited something of the truth.

-

-“No, I cannot come!” she said; “my cousin, Walter Hetherington, is

-staying in the village, and so long as he remains here he is to spend

-the evenings with us. As to-morrow is Sunday, and no work can be done,

-my aunt has invited him up for the day.”

-

-Santley was relieved, very much relieved indeed. He could now give his

-sister a tangible reason for Edith’s absence from the Vicarage, while

-he himself would be perfectly free to spend the afternoon with Mrs.

-Haldane. He tried, to suppress the delight which he could not help

-feeling, and said quietly, “Let us hope the young man will make a

-speedy departure, if he means to monopolize you so much. But that

-reminds me, Edith, a young man, a Mr. Walter Hetherington, called upon

-me to-day and left his card. I suppose it is the same?”

-

-“Of course it is,” returned Edith. “But what could he want with

-_you?_”

-

-“I don’t in the least know. Nothing of very great importance, I

-suppose, since he promised to call again, and never reappeared.”

-

-The clergyman paused.

-

-They had come now to within a short distance of Edith’s home. Again,

-after a furtive look round, he clasped her fondly to him, pressed her

-lips, and murmured, “Good night, my Edith!”

-

-“Good night,” returned the girl, withdrawing herself reluctantly

-from his embrace. “Oh, I am so happy now! You were quite right, dear;

-another week like the last would have broken my heart!”

-

-Thus they parted--Edith, happy as a child, creeping quickly to the

-cottage; the good man smiling celestially, and well pleased to have

-made everything comfortable at little personal inconvenience, walking

-back to his holy hearth, and thinking of his Sunday sermon.

-

-

-

-

-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.”

-

-“No, you would not. I was in the organ-room. It is my Sunday for

-playing, you remember!”

-

-To this he made no reply. He was wondering how it was that Edith could

-manage so effectually to play such a double part. He expected at least

-a downcast eye, and a blush of guilt upon her cheek; with this he

-might have been tolerably satisfied. But Edith’s face looked brighter

-than it had done for many a day.

-

-“I forgot to ask you,” he said suddenly, “if your headache was

-better.”

-

-“My headache?” she replied. She had been so engrossed with happy

-thoughts at the reconciliation, that the question took her completely

-by surprise.

-

-“Ah yes,” she added, suddenly recollecting herself; “it is so much

-better, that I had quite forgotten it. You see what a good night’s

-rest will do!”

-

-Walter uttered an impatient sigh, and turned on his heel; while Edith

-added--

-

-“You are coming up to dine with us to-day, you know. Shall we walk

-together?”

-

-“I am not coming!”

-

-“Not coming? I thought----”

-

-“Yes, I did accept your aunt’s invitation; but I feel upset to-day,

-and am not fit company for anyone. Will you make my excuses at home?”

-

-“Yes, certainly I will; and I hope that to-morrow you will be so much

-better. Good-bye.”

-

-She shook hands with him, and tripped away.

-

-For a time Walter made no attempt to move, but gazed after her with

-eyes full of sadness and despair. Although he said to himself that

-henceforth Edith must be nothing to him, he felt pained at the

-curtness with which she could dismiss him. He had noticed that she had

-never once attempted to persuade him to alter his decision; indeed,

-she had not been able to hide from him her delight at hearing it, and

-he felt very bitter.

-

-He turned from the church, walked away, and, after strolling about for

-some time he knew not whither, he raised his head and found himself

-quite close to the schoolmistress’s cottage. Dora stood in the

-doorway, surrounded by her flowers.

-

-She came forward when she saw him, and, after giving him a bright

-smile and a warm handshake, stood by the gate and continued to talk.

-She was a wise little woman, and knew exactly what to say and what

-to leave unsaid; she had been a witness of the interview between the

-cousins in the churchyard that morning, and her woman’s instinct

-had divined something of the true state of things. So she chatted

-pleasantly to the young man, and took no notice whatever of his pale

-cheek and peculiarity of manner; and when he said suddenly, “Are you

-not going to ask me in to-day, Miss Greatheart?” she threw open the

-gate at once, and said that she was sadly neglectful and inhospitable,

-and that if Mr. Hetherington would like to come in, he would be more

-than welcome. So he followed her again into the quaint little parlour,

-and again took his seat by the open window, to gaze with strange,

-meditative eyes upon the little garden where the sun was shining. It

-was a ragged little garden enough, and by no means well cared for,

-since Dora was not rich enough to pay for labour, like her more

-fortunate neighbours in the village.

-

-During her leisure hours she worked among the flower-beds until her

-plump hands ached again; but, after all, her leisure hours were very

-few, and the grass and weeds grew so quickly. Walter saw that the

-grass was many inches too long, and that it was scattered thickly with

-withered rose-leaves; that here and there a rose tree was sadly in

-want of the pruning knife. But that did not make the scent of the

-flowers any the less delicious; nor did it take from the quiet beauty

-of their place. There was plenty of light and colour everywhere, and

-there was beauty.

-

-While looking at the garden, Walter began to think of the gardens

-mistress--quiet little Dora, living so contented among her children;

-and in the winter still living here alone, when the flowers had faded,

-when withered rose-leaves were scattered profusely on the grass, and

-the leafless branches of the trees bent before the biting breath of

-the bitter winter wind. It was a pretty picture of Dora--he loved it

-as we love the creatures of our imagination; it seemed to make Dora

-belong to him, artistically, as it were, and bring him consolation.

-Then his reflections took another turn, and he began, for the first

-time, to think it strange that the little woman should be so much

-alone.

-

-He said something of this to Dora; and she laughed and blushed, and

-answered frankly enough.

-

-“Yes, I am a good deal alone. You see, I am in an equivocal position.

-I am too good for the servants, and not good enough for their

-mistresses. I am only the governess!”

-

-“At any rate,” said Walter, “you have contrived to brighten up what

-would otherwise have been a very cheerless visit. As a token of my

-gratitude, will you accept a little present from me?”

-

-“I want no present, sir; your friendly words are quite enough.”

-

-“Nonsense! I should like to give you some of the sketches I have made

-of the village.”

-

-“To me! give them to me?” said Dora, with wide-open eyes. “Why, Mr.

-Hetherington, I thought you wanted them to--to-------”

-

-“To--what?”

-

-“Well, to remind you of this visit!”

-

-“Perhaps when I began them I had some notion of that kind in my head;

-we are all fools sometimes, you know. But I have changed my mind; I

-don’t want to be reminded of this visit. Yes, I shall give you the

-sketches--that is to say, if you will accept them; and when I have

-taken my departure--and I shall do so soon--I shall try to forget that

-such a village as Omberley ever existed at all.”

-

-“And the people,” said Dora; “of course you will try to forget the

-people?”

-

-“That is the first thing I shall try to do!”

-

-We are most of us selfish in our grief, and Walter was no exception to

-the rule. Mortified and suffering himself, it never once entered his

-head that he might be unpolite, and even rude, to another. But the

-knife entered Dora’s little heart, and made her wince. She had been

-happy in the knowledge that she had met a fellow-creature who could

-treat her exactly as an equal--a man whom she could call a friend; and

-lo! when her interest is strongest, when she has been telling herself

-that the memory of the few days which he has brightened for ever will

-linger in her memory and never die, he came to tell her that his first

-effort would be to forget the place--and _her_.

-

-“I will take the pictures, if you like, Mr. Hetherington, but merely

-as a loan. You will change your mind again.. I am convinced that some

-day you will ask me for them back again, and when you do they shall

-certainly be yours. But the sketch of the cottage--is it finished

-already?”

-

-“The sketch of the cottage? Oh, I should like to keep _that_. It

-contains the picture of a lady whom I should certainly not like to

-forget.”

-

-Then, while the glad light danced in Dora’s eyes again, he rose and

-took her hand, as he said--

-

-“Good-bye, Miss Greatheart. When I said I should forget the village

-and the people I was wrong. Your kindness and hospitality I shall

-always remember.”

-

-So he crossed the threshold of the happy little schoolhouse, to stroll

-out again into the sunshine; and again he thought very bitterly of the

-woman who had effectually taken all the sunshine from his life.

-

-He need not have thought so bitterly of her. If she had wounded him

-she was receiving her punishment.

-

-Having left Walter in the churchyard, Edith flew home like one walking

-on air. She had accepted his decision gleefully, never attempting to

-alter it by word or look, for she was thinking all the time of the

-invitation she had received from Mr. Santley, and which had cost

-her such a pang to refuse. Walter’s sudden determination left her

-free--free to spend a few hours in the company of the man who was more

-to her than the whole world. Lighthearted and happy, she hurried home,

-gave Walter’s message to her aunt, and then sat down and made a very

-hearty meal. After it was over, and a reasonable time had elapsed,

-she again put on her hat, and told her aunt she was going down to the

-Vicarage.

-

-“I shan’t be back till late, aunt,” she added, “for, as I have to

-go to the Vicarage, I may as well walk to evening service with Miss

-Santley. If Walter changes his mind and comes, you will look after him

-well, won’t you?”

-

-And Mrs. Russell, promising implicit obedience, kissed her niece

-fondly, and watched her go down the road. On reaching the Vicarage,

-Edith was admitted at once. There was no necessity to take her card

-and keep her waiting while she ascertained if master or mistress was

-at home. She was known to the servants as a visitor who was always

-welcome--at any rate to the mistress of the house. So, without any

-preamble at all, she was shown into the sitting-room, and into the

-presence of Miss Santley.

-

-The room was as luxuriously furnished as any in the Vicarage, and

-charmingly decorated with the choicest of hothouse flowers. The lady

-sat in a low wicker chair, with a book in her hand, and at her elbow

-a little gipsy table, holding a tea-service of Dresden china. The

-opening of the door disturbed the lady. She let her book fall upon her

-knee, and looked up dreamily; but the moment her eye fell upon Edith

-she rose, smiling brightly, gave the girl both her hands, and kissed

-her fondly.

-

-“My dear Edith, I am so glad!” she exclaimed; and there was a ring of

-genuine welcome in her voice. “Why, you are a perfect stranger.--Jane,

-bring a cup for Miss Dove.--Now, dear, select your chair, take off

-your hat, and make yourself comfortable.”

-

-Edith did as she was bidden. She placed her hat on one of the many

-little tables with which the room abounded, stood before one of

-the glasses for a moment to rectify any disarrangement of hair and

-costume; then she drew forth a little wicker chair similar to that

-occupied by her hostess, and sat down. By this time the teapot was

-brought in, and the tea poured, so Edith sat and sipped it, talking

-and laughing meanwhile like a happy child.

-

-“Well, dear,” said Miss Santley, “and what have you been doing with

-yourself all the week? Charles tells me you have a cousin in the

-village, who completely monopolizes you. By the way, he told me that

-he had tried to persuade you to come to tea to-day, but that you had

-positively refused. That could not have been true.”

-

-“Yes, it was true,” returned Edith. “I did refuse when he asked me,

-because I thought I could not come. I thought my cousin would dine

-with us as usual; but I met him at church this morning, and he said he

-was rather unwell and could not come. So I thought it would not matter

-if I came after all.”

-

-“Matter! My dear, I am delighted.” And so, having thus satisfactorily

-arranged matters, the two sat chatting to their hearts’ content.

-

-It was very pleasant, exceedingly pleasant--at any other time Edith

-would have enjoyed it hugely; but as the hands of the bronze clock on

-the chimneypiece travelled so quickly round, she began to grow uneasy,

-and to wonder at the protracted absence of her lover. Miss Santley was

-a very pleasant person indeed, and Edith was very fond of her; but it

-had been a stronger inducement than Miss Santley that had brought

-her to the Vicarage that afternoon. Santley must know she was in the

-house, thought Edith; it was strange he did not come.

-

-Suddenly Miss Santley glanced at the clock. In a moment she was on her

-feet.

-

-“My dear,” she exclaimed, “how the time has flown! Do you play again

-to-night?”

-

-“Yes.”

-

-The lady nodded.

-

-“Well walk to church together, dear,” she said. “Amuse yourself by

-looking at the books, while I run away to get my bonnet and mantle

-on.”

-

-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.

-

-“Why, my dear!” exclaimed Miss Santley. “Whatever is the matter? Has

-anything happened?”

-

-“No, nothing,” said Edith, faintly. “I have got a very bad headache,

-that is all; and--and--I cannot go to church again to-day, Miss

-Santley.”

-

-“Go to church,” echoed Miss Santley. “Why, my dearest girl, of course

-you cant go to church! I will send Jane with a message to Charles, and

-stay and take care of you.”

-

-But this Edith would not allow. She pulled the handkerchief from her

-forehead, and declared her intention of going home.

-

-Miss Santley kissed her kindly. At this exhibition of tenderness Edith

-fairly broke down. She threw her arms around the lady’s neck, and

-burst into tears.

-

-“I--I am so sorry,” she said at last, when her sobs had somewhat

-subsided; “but I could not help it. I--I am such a coward when I am

-ill!”

-

-Miss Santley said nothing; she knew she could do nothing. There was

-some mystery here which she could not fathom, so she yielded to the

-girl’s solicitations and allowed her to go home.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER XXII. AT THE VICARAGE.

-

-|One evening about the middle of the week, as the Rev. Mr. Santley sat

-alone in his study a card was brought to him, on which was printed--

-

-Mr. Walter Hetherington.

-

-The clergyman raised his brows as he read, and asked the maid, who

-waited respectfully at the door, if the gentleman had not called upon

-him before.

-

-“Once before, sir!”

-

-“Did he state his business?”

-

-“He did not, sir; he only said he would not detain you long.”

-

-“Well, ask the gentleman to be good enough to walk this way.”

-

-The maid retired, and a moment afterwards Walter entered the room.

-

-The two men bowed to each other. One glance had assured Santley that

-any attempt at a warmer greeting would be injudicious; the other might

-not respond, and it would never do for the vicar of the parish to be

-snubbed by an itinerant painter whom nobody knew--besides, under the

-circumstances, a bow was ample greeting. He infused into it as much

-politeness as possible, welcomed his young friend to the Vicarage,

-and, pointing to a chair which he had drawn forward, begged him to

-be seated. Decidedly the clergyman was the most self-possessed of

-the two. For Walter took his seat in nervous silence; while Santley,

-wondering greatly in his own mind what could possibly have procured

-him the honour of that visit, kept the scene from flagging by that

-wonderful gift of small talk with which he was possessed.

-

-He was very pleased indeed to meet Mr. Hetherington. He had done him

-the honour to call upon him once before he thought--yes, he was sure

-of it; and he had also had the pleasure of meeting him once

-before, when he had not had the honour of his acquaintance. Was Mr.

-Hetherington thinking of making a long stay amongst them?

-

-“Not very long,” said Walter.

-

-“I suppose you have made some charming sketches?” continued the

-clergyman. “There are pretty little spots about the village, spots

-well worthy of a painters brush. I used to do a little in that way

-myself when I was a youngster at college; but the vicar of a parish

-has onerous duties. I suppose at the present moment I should hardly

-know how to handle a brush. Are you thinking of leaving us soon, Mr.

-Hetherington?”

-

-“I am not quite sure!”

-

-“Ah! well, if you stay and would like to make use of my library, I

-should feel greatly honoured. It is the only thing I have to offer

-you, I fear; but I shall be very pleased indeed to put it at your

-service. It contains a few books on your own art, which might interest

-you.”

-

-“You are very kind, Mr. Santley.”

-

-“Not at all, my dear sir; I am merely neighbourly. Life would be

-dreary indeed if one could not be neighbourly in a place like this!”

-

-“Mr. Santley, I have come to you for your advice.”

-

-The clergyman, nervously dreading what was to follow, looked at his

-visitor with a calm smile, and answered pleasantly enough.

-

-“My advice? My dear sir, I place it freely at your service, and myself

-also if I can be of the slightest use to you.”

-

-“You can be of very great use to me.”

-

-The clergyman merely bowed this time and waited, so Walter continued--

-

-“You know my cousin, Miss Edith Dove?”

-

-As he spoke he fixed his eyes keenly upon the clergyman’s face, but

-the latter made no sign; he neither winced nor changed colour, but

-answered calmly enough.

-

-“I have the pleasure of the lady’s acquaintance. She is one of the

-most esteemed members of my congregation.”

-

-“It is about Miss Dove I wished to speak to you.”

-

-Again the clergyman bowed; again he found it unnecessary to make a

-reply.

-

-Walter, growing somewhat ill at ease, continued--

-

-“I don’t mind confessing to you, Mr. Santley, that at one period of my

-career I hoped most earnestly, and indeed confidently believed, that

-at no very remote date I should have the happiness of making her my

-wife. I was sincerely attached to her; I believe she was attached to

-me. But recently all has changed. She is wasting her life; throwing

-aside all chance of happiness, through some mad infatuation about the

-Church.”

-

-“Some mad infatuation about the Church!” returned the clergyman,

-methodically. “Really, my dear sir, I am afraid you forget you are

-speaking to a clergyman of the Church. As to Miss Dove, she is a

-lady whose conduct is without reproach; she is one of the Church’s

-staunchest supporters!”

-

-“Then you approve her present mode of life; you uphold it? You will

-not advise her to shake her morbid fancies away? to accept an honest

-affection and a happy home?”

-

-Santley seemed to reflect.

-

-“As a clergyman of the Church, I should advise her the other way,

-I think. Surely the fulfilment of religious duties points to a more

-elevated mode of existence than mere marrying and giving in marriage.

-I am sorry for you, since I believe that any man possessed of that

-lady’s esteem might deem himself fortunate; still, I could not advise

-her to act against her conscience and the promptings of religion.”

-

-“And me, what do you advise me to do?”

-

-The clergyman shrugged his shoulders. “It seems to me that there is

-only one thing that you can do. If the lady finds your attentions

-disagreeable, surely the most honourable course for you to adopt would

-be to leave her--in peace.” Walter rose, and the clergyman breathed

-more freely, believing that the interview had come to a satisfactory

-end. Neither of them spoke for a minute or so, till the clergyman

-looked up, and said quietly--

-

-“You have something more to say, Mr. Hetherington?”

-

-“Yes,” 9 answered Walter; “I have something more to say.” Then, going

-a few steps nearer to the clergyman, he added, “You are a hypocrite,

-Mr. Santley!”

-

-The clergyman’s face grew pale. He rose hastily from his seat; but

-before he could speak Walter continued, vehemently--

-

-“Do you think I don’t know you? Do you think I haven’t discovered that

-it is you, and not the Church, who has taken my cousin from me? You

-talk to me of religion, of religious duties, and yet you know that you

-are playing the hypocrite to her, as you have done to me, and that you

-are breaking her heart.”

-

-He paused, flushed, excited, and angry. The clergyman stood calm and

-very pale.

-

-“You do well to seek this interview in my house, sir,” he said. “Now

-you have insulted me with impunity, perhaps you will take your leave.”

-

-But Walter made no attempt to move.

-

-“Before I go,” he said, “I wish to know what are your plans regarding

-my cousin?”

-

-“And I should like to ask you, sir,” returned the clergyman, “what

-authority you have for interfering in my private affairs?”

-

-“I have no authority; your private affairs are nothing to me. I speak

-in the interest of my cousin!”

-

-“Really! I should fancy your interference would be hardly likely to do

-her much good.” #

-

-“Mr. Santley, I shall ask you one more question. Do you, or do you

-not, mean to marry my cousin?”

-

-“And if I refuse to answer?”

-

-“I shall make it my duty, before tomorrow night, to expose you.”

-

-“Really!” returned the clergyman, with an exasperating smile. “You

-will draw your cousin’s good name through the mire in order to throw a

-little mud at me. I should think, young man, you must be a treasure

-to your family. Good evening. I will ring for the servant to show you

-out.”

-

-And he did ring--at the most opportune moment too; for Walter,

-staggered by that last thrust, perceived that his enemy was on the

-side of power. So, when in answer to her master’s summons the servant

-appeared, Walter followed her; he was afraid to utter another word,

-for Edith’s sake.

-

-When he was gone, all Santley’s calmness deserted him, and he walked

-up and down the room in a fit of uncontrollable rage. When he had

-grown calmer, he sat down and wrote one of his neatly worded epistles

-to Edith, making an appointment for the following day.

-

-He half believed that Walter had come to him, as Edith’s authorized

-messenger, to attempt to force upon him those bonds which he was

-so very reluctant to wear. The clergyman could not in any other way

-account for his knowledge of the relations existing between the

-two. It was well for Edith that at that moment she was not near her

-lover--well for her, also, that no meeting could take place between

-them until the following day.

-

-The next day Santley was very much more composed, and when he walked

-towards the trysting-place none would have known, from his outward

-appearance, that anything was materially wrong. He had made the

-appointment in daylight this time; since embraces could be dispensed

-with, so also could darkness and night. There was really nothing in

-this meeting after all; nothing but what might have been witnessed by

-a dozen pair of eyes. Those who did see it would see only an event of

-ordinary everyday life.

-

-Miss Edith Dove, walking leisurely towards the village, was overtaken

-by the clergyman, who paused to shake hands with her, and to walk with

-her a part of the way. Had any one looked closely at these two, he

-would have seen that the clergyman, though calm, was very pale; that

-Edith, pale too, had a weary, listless look about her face; that after

-she had shaken hands with her pastor, she quickly turned away her

-head, for her eyes grew dim with tears.

-

-If Santley saw the tears he did not care to notice them. He had

-found, directly they met, that she was suffering from one of those

-deplorable fits of temper which had more than once caused trouble

-between them; but that could not be taken any notice of now. If she

-chose to wear herself to a shadow, it was her own affair; he had

-something more important on hand. The interview could not be a long

-one, therefore he must reach the heart of the matter at once.

-

-So he began abruptly--

-

-“Edith, this new course you have adopted is a dangerous one, and had

-better be abandoned without loss of time.”

-

-The girl raised her eyes to his face, and asked wearily--

-

-“What do you mean? What have I done?”

-

-“I suppose you are responsible for your cousin’s visit to my house;

-you must have instigated it, if you did not actually advise him!”

-

-Again she raised her troubled eyes to his face, and said sadly--

-

-“I don’t know what you mean.”

-

-“Then I will tell you, Edith. Your cousin, a hot-headed, ill-mannered

-youth, has thought fit to take upon himself the part of protector, or

-guardian, of your happiness. In this capacity he paid me a domiciliary

-visit yesterday, and treated me to some most violent abuse. He

-threatened to make known to the public the relations between us. I

-advised him to think it over, for your sake!”

-

-“My cousin--Walter Hetherington, do you mean?”

-

-“Most certainly.”

-

-“But how does he know? how has he learned?”

-

-“From you, I suppose.”

-

-“No; it is not from me,” returned Edith, whose listlessness was fast

-disappearing. “I have said nothing; I have never even mentioned your

-name to him. It must be known; it must be talked of in the village.

-Oh, Charles, spare me! Keep your promise to me, for God’s sake! Any

-open disgrace would be more than I could bear. I should die.”

-

-The girl, overcome by her emotion, had forgotten for the moment that

-their present interview was a perfectly public one. The clergyman

-coldly reminded her of the fact. Then, after she had forced upon

-herself a composure which she was far from feeling, he continued--“You

-had better understand, Edith, once and for ever, that whatever

-my conduct may be, I do not choose to have it questioned by this

-exceedingly officious young man. A repetition of the scene of

-yesterday I will not bear. And as it is evident to me that my actions

-are under surveillance, I must refuse either to see or hear from you

-again, until that young man has removed himself from the village.”

-

-“Charles, you surely don’t mean that?” exclaimed the girl.

-

-But he certainly did mean it, and though she pleaded and argued, he

-remained firm. At last she resolved that she would speak to Walter,

-resent his interference, and, if possible, induce him to return home.

-

-Then the two shook hands and parted.

-

-That evening Walter dined at the-cottage. During the dinner Edith

-scarcely looked at him; while he himself was silent and distrait. But

-after dinner, when they had all retired to the drawing-room, when the

-old lady had settled down to her wool-work, and Walter had lit his

-cigar, Edith threw a light shawl over her head, and asked him if he

-would come with her into the garden.

-

-Wondering very much at the request, Walter rose at once, and offered

-her his arm. She took it; but the moment they were alone she withdrew

-her hand and turned angrily upon him. Walter listened, and he found

-that he had some chance of being heard. He acknowledged that she had

-spoken the truth; he _had_ interfered; he had deemed it quite right

-that he should do so for her sake.

-

-“For my sake!” returned Edith. “It seems to me there is more of

-selfishness than benevolence in what you have done. What is it to

-you if I am engaged to Mr. Santley? and if we choose to keep our

-engagement a secret, what is that to you? I am my own mistress; I can

-act just as I think fit, without the fear of coercion from any one.

-_You_, at any rate, have no right to regulate my actions or to dictate

-them. I suppose you think I have no right to marry any one, simply

-because I refuse to be coerced into marrying you!”

-

-It was a cruel thing to say; but Edith was simply dealing him,

-secondhand, some of the stabs which she herself had received from her

-beloved pastor in the morning. The stabs went deep into his heart, and

-the wounds remained for many a day. When Edith had uttered a few more

-truisms with the characteristic selfishness of love and hatred, Walter

-coldly suggested that their pleasant stroll in the garden might be

-brought to a termination.

-

-They returned together to the house. As the old lady, beaming with

-delight at what she believed to be the sudden and happy reconciliation

-of the cousins, had prepared the tea, Walter pleased her by sitting

-down to take some before he said good night.

-

-But the next day he returned to town.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER XXIII. DR. DUPRÉ’S ELIXIR.

-

-|George Haldane returned home in the best of spirits. His paper had

-been received with enthusiasm by the _savants_ of France, and his

-life in Paris had been one pleasant succession of visits, learned

-conversaziones, and private entertainments. Thanks to his happy

-pre-occupation, he scarcely noticed that his wife’s manner was

-constrained, nervous, yet deeply solicitous; that she looked pale

-and worn, as if with constant watching; and that, in answer to his

-careless questioning as to affairs at home, she made only fragmentary

-replies.

-

-On entering his dressing-room to change his apparel, he found

-Baptisto, who was quietly undoing his portmanteau and selecting the

-necessary things with a calm air, as if his services had never been

-interrupted.

-

-“So, my Baptisto,” he said, clapping that worthy on the shoulder, “you

-are not dead or buried, I see? Ah, you may smile, but I am quite aware

-of the trick you played me. Well, you have been the loser. You would

-have had a pleasant time of it in Paris, the best of entertainment,

-and nothing whatever to do.”

-

-“I am glad you have returned, senor,” replied Baptisto, with his

-customary solemnity.

-

-“I hope you have given satisfaction to your mistress during my

-absence?”

-

-“I hope so, senor.”

-

-“Humph! we shall see what report she has to make concerning you, and

-if that is favourable, I may forgive your freak of laziness.”

-

-“I have not been lazy, senor,” said Baptisto, quietly preparing the

-toilette.

-

-“Indeed! Pray, how have you been employing yourself?”

-

-Baptisto did not reply, but smiled again.

-

-“How is your inamerata and her family? I saw the little woman

-curtsying as I passed through the lodge-gates.”

-

-Baptisto shook his head solemnly.

-

-“Ah, senor,” he said, “you are mistaken. The woman of the lodge is a

-stupid person; and for the rest, I put no faith in women. _Cuerpo di

-Baccho_, no! They smile upon us when we are near; but no sooner do we

-turn our backs, than they smile upon some other man.”

-

-“Pretty philosophy,” returned Haldane, with a laugh. “Why, you are a

-downright misogynist, my Baptisto. But I don’t believe one word you

-say, for all that. Men who talk like you are generally very easy

-conquests, and I would bet twenty to one on the little widow still.”

-

-“Ah, senor, if all women were like your signora, it would be

-different. She is so good, so pure, so faithful at her devotions. It

-is a great thing to have religion.”

-

-As Baptisto spoke his back was turned to his master, so that the

-extraordinary expression of his face was unnoticed, and there was no

-indication in his tone that he spoke satirically. Haldane shrugged his

-shoulders and said nothing, not caring to discuss his wife’s virtues

-with a servant, however familiar. Presently he went downstairs to

-dinner. All that evening he was very affectionate and merry, talking

-volubly of his adventures in Paris, of his scientific acquaintances,

-and of such new discoveries as they had brought under his notice.

-In the course of his happy chat he spoke frequently of a new

-acquaintance, one Dr. Dupré, whom he had met in the French capital.

-“The French, however far behind the Germans in speculative affairs,”

- he observed, “are far their superiors, and ours, in physiology. Take

-this Dupré, for example. He is a wonderful fellow! His dissections and

-vivisections’ have brought him to such a point of mastery that he is

-almost certain that he has discovered the problem poor Lewes broke his

-heart over--how and by what mechanism we can’t think. I don’t quite

-believe he has succeeded in that great discovery, but some of his

-minor discoveries are extraordinary. Did you read the account in the

-papers of his elixir of death?”

-

-Ellen shook her head. The very name seemed horrible.

-

-“His elixir of death?” she repeated.

-

-“Yes. A chemical preparation, the fundamental principle of which is

-morphine. By its agency he can so produce in a living organism the

-ordinary phenomena of death, that even _rigor mortis_ is simulated. I

-saw the experiment tried on two rabbits, a Newfoundland dog, and, to

-crown all, on the human subject. They were all, to every appearance,

-dead; the rabbits for twenty-four hours, the dog for half a day, and

-the woman for an hour and a half.”

-

-“Horrible!” exclaimed Ellen, with a shudder. “Do you actually mean he

-experimented on a living woman?”

-

-“Yes; on a strapping wench, the daughter of his housekeeper; and a

-very fine thing she made of it. We subscribed together, and presented

-her with a purse of a thousand francs.”

-

-“I think such things are wicked,” cried Ellen, with some warmth. “Mere

-mortals have no right to play, in that way, with the mystery of life

-and death.”

-

-“My dear Nell,” cried Haldane, laughing, “it is in the interests of

-science!”

-

-“But I am sure it is not right. Life is given and taken by God alone.”

-

-“Your argument, if accepted, would make all mankind accept the

-religion of the Peculiar People, who will cure no diseases by human

-intervention. As to this business of suspended animation, it is merely

-a part of our discoveries in anodynes. Dupré’s experiment, I know, is

-perfectly safe.”

-

-“But that is not the question.”

-

-“How so, my dear?”

-

-“What I mean is, that death is too solemn and awful a thing to imitate

-as you describe. Such experiments are simply blasphemous, in my

-opinion.”

-

-“Come, come,” cried the philosopher. “There is no blasphemy where

-there is no irreverence. According to your religious people, your

-priests of the churches, there was blasphemy in circumnavigating the

-globe; in discovering the circulation of the blood; in ascertaining

-the age of the earth; and, still later, in using chloroform to lessen

-the pangs of parturition.”

-

-“But what purpose can be served by such experiments as _that?_”

-

-“A good many,” was the reply. “For example, it may help us to the

-discovery of the nature of life itself, which has puzzled everybody,

-from Parmenides down to Haeckel. If we can by a simple anodyne suspend

-the vital mechanism for a period, and then by a vegetable antidote

-restore it again to action, the resurrection of Lazarus will cease to

-be a miracle, and the pretensions of Christianity----”

-

-Ellen rose impatiently, with an expression of sincere pain.

-

-“My dear Nell, what is the matter?” cried her husband.

-

-“I cannot bear to hear you discuss such a thing. Oh, George, if you

-would leave such wicked speculations alone, and try to believe in the

-mystery and sovereignty of God!”

-

-“You mean, burn my books, and go to hear your seraphic friend every

-Sunday?”

-

-Had he not touched, unconsciously, on another painful chord? Why,

-otherwise, did his wife flush scarlet and partially avert her face?

-Conquering herself with an effort, she went over to him, and bending

-over him, looked fondly into his face.

-

-“You are so much cleverer than I, so much wiser, and do you think I am

-not proud of your wisdom? But, all the same, dear, I wish you did not

-think as you do. When life becomes a mere experiment, a mere thing of

-mechanism, what will be left? If we knew everything, even what we are,

-and why we exist, the world would be a tomb--with no place in it for

-the Living God.”

-

-Touched by her manner, Haldane drew her down by his side and kissed

-her; then, with more earnestness than he had yet exhibited, he

-answered her, holding her hand in his own and pressing it softly.

-

-“My dear Nell, do me the justice to believe that I am not quite a

-materialist; simple agnosticism is the very converse of materialism.

-There is not living a scientific philosopher of any eminence who

-does not, in his calculations, postulate a mystery which can never be

-solved by the finest intellect. Even if we had fully completed, with

-the poet--=

-

-```'The new creed of science, which showeth to man

-

-`````How he darkly began,

-

-```How he grew from a cell to a soul, without plan;

-

-```How he breaks like a wave of the ocean, and goes

-

-`````To eternal repose--

-

-```A tone that must fade, tho’ the great Music grows!

-

-even then, we should know nothing of the First Cause. That must for

-ever remain inscrutable.”

-

-“But how horrible it would be to believe in annihilation? _Can_ you

-believe in it?”

-

-“Certainly not,” replied the philosopher.

-

-Ellens face brightened.

-

-“Oh, I am so glad to hear you say that!”

-

-“My dear Nell, annihilation is absurd.”

-

-“Now, isn’t it?” she cried triumphantly.

-

-“It is refuted, on the face of it, by the doctrine of the conservation

-of force. Life is eternal, in one shape or another; no force can be

-destroyed, be sure of that!”

-

-“I wish Mr. Santley could hear you! He wouldn’t call you an atheist

-then!”

-

-Haldane’s face darkened angrily.

-

-“What? Does the man actually----”

-

-“Don’t misunderstand,” cried Ellen, flushing scarlet. “I do not mean

-that he really calls you an atheist, but he is so sorry, so deeply

-sorry, that you do not believe. He does not know you, dear, and takes

-all my bear’s satirical growling for solemn earnest. Now, when I tell

-him----”

-

-“You will tell him nothing,” exclaimed Haldane, with sudden sternness.

-“I will have no priest coming between my wife and me!”

-

-“Mr. Santley would never do that,” she returned, now trembling

-violently.

-

-“Mr. Santley is like all his tribe, I suppose--a meddler and a

-mischief-maker. That is the worst of other-worldliness; it gives these

-traders in the Godhead, these peddlers who would give us in exchange

-for belief in their superstitions a _bonus_ in paradise, an excuse for

-making this world unbearable. Well, my atheism, if you choose to call

-it so, against his theism. Mine at least keeps me a man among men,

-while his keeps him a twaddler among women.”

-

-Haldane spoke with heat, for the word “atheist” had somehow stung him

-to the quick. This man, who rejected all outward forms of belief, and

-whose conversation was habitually ironical, was in his inmost nature

-deeply and sincerely religious; humbly reverent before the forces of

-nature; spiritually conscious of that Power beyond ourselves which

-makes for righteousness. True, he rejected the ordinary forms of

-theism; but he had, on the other hand, a deep though dumb reverence

-for the character of Christ, and he had no sympathy with such

-out-and-out materialists as Haeckel and _hoc genus omne_. For the

-rest, he was liberal-minded, and had no desire to interfere with his

-wife’s convictions; could smile a little at her simplicity, and would

-see no harm in her clerical predispositions, so long as the clergyman

-didn’t encroach too far on the domain of married life and domestic

-privacy.

-

-His indignation did not last. Seeing his wife greatly agitated, and

-fearing that he had caused her pain, he drew her forehead down and

-kissed it; then, patting her cheek, he said--

-

-“Forgive me, Nell. I did not mean to scold; but one does not like hard

-names. When any one calls me ‘atheist,’ I am like the old woman whom

-Cobbett called a ‘parallelogram;’ it is not the significance of the

-epithet, but its opprobrium, that rouses me. Besides, I do not like

-any man to abuse me--to my own wife.”

-

-“No one does that,” she cried. “You know I would not listen.”

-

-“I hope not, my dear.” He added after a little, looking at her

-thoughtfully and sadly, “Man and wife have fallen asunder before

-now, on this very question of religion. Well, rather than that should

-happen, I will let you convert me. Will that satisfy you?”

-

-“I shall never be quite satisfied till I know that you believe as I

-do.”

-

-“What is that, pray?”

-

-“That there is a just God, who made and cherishes us; and that,

-through the blood of His Son we shall live again although we die!”

-

-“Well, it is a beautiful creed, my dear.”

-

-“And true?”

-

-“Why not? I will go with you thus far. I believe that, if there is a

-God, He is just, and that we shall certainly live again, if it is for

-our good.”

-

-The emphasis with which he spoke the last words attracted her

-attention.

-

-“For our good?” she queried.

-

-“I am quoting the saddest words ever written, by the saddest and best

-man I ever knew. * He, too, believed that a God might spare us, and

-give us eternal life, if--mark the proviso--eternal life were indeed

-_for our good._ But suppose the contrary--suppose God knew better, and

-that it would be an evil and unhappy gift? Alas! who knows?”

-

-     *  J. S. Mill.

-

-He rose from his chair, still encircling his wife’s waist, and moved

-towards the door.

-

-“Come to the drawing-room,” he cried gaily. “After so much offhand

-theology, a little music will be delightful. Ah, Nell, one breath of

-Beethoven is worth all the prosings of your parsons. Play to me, and,

-while the music lasts, I will believe what you will.”

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER XXIV. THE EXPERIMENT.

-

-|The next morning Haldane was busy in his laboratory. When he came in

-to lunch, looking disreputable enough in his old coat, and smelling

-strongly of tobacco, he said to his wife--

-

-“By-the-by, Nell, do you remember what I told you last night about

-Dupré’s wonderful elixir? I forgot to tell you that I have brought

-some of it with me, for purposes of private experiment.” Ellen looked

-horrified.

-

-“Don’t be afraid,” he continued, laughing; “your cats and dogs are

-safe from me. I have found a better subject, and mean to operate on

-him this very afternoon.”

-

-“Whom do you mean?”

-

-“As a sort of penance for his shamming illness, I shall kill

-Baptisto.”

-

-She uttered a cry, and raised her hands in protest.

-

-“For heavens sake, George, be warned! If you have any of that horrible

-stuff, throw it away.”

-

-“Now, my dear Nell,” said the philosopher, “be reasonable; there is

-not the slightest cause for alarm. You will see this experiment, and

-it will, I hope, treble your faith in miracles.”

-

-“I will _not_ see it. I beseech you, abandon the idea. As for

-Baptisto----”

-

-At this moment the Spaniard entered the room, carrying certain dishes.

-

-“I have been telling your mistress, Baptisto, that you are ready to

-be a martyr to science. At four o’clock precisely, you will be a dead

-man.”

-

-Baptisto bowed solemnly.

-

-“I am quite ready, senor.”

-

-But here Ellen interposed.

-

-“It is ridiculous; your master is only joking. He would not do

-anything so foolish, so wicked. As for you, I forbid you to encourage

-him.”

-

-Baptisto bowed again, with a curious smile.

-

-“It is for the senor to command. As he knows, he has saved my life,

-and he may take it whenever he pleases.”

-

-Haldane nodded, in the act of drinking a glass of wine.

-

-“Don’t be afraid, Baptisto. After death, there is the resurrection.”

-

-“That, senor, is your affair,” returned the Spaniard, phlegmatically,

-shrugging his shoulders. “You will do with me as you please.”

-

-And so saying, he glided from the room.

-

-Ellen again and again entreated her husband not to proceed in his

-experiment; but he had long made up his mind that it was perfectly

-safe, and he could not be persuaded. To her gentle: spirit, the whole

-idea seemed horrible in the extreme; but her greatest dread was that

-it might be attended with danger to the subject. Haldane, however,

-assured her that this was impossible.

-

-All the afternoon Haldane and Baptisto were together in the

-laboratory. A little after four o’clock, as Ellen was walking on the

-terrace, Haldane came to her, smiling and holding up a small vial.

-

-“It is all over,” he said, “and the experiment is quite successful.

-Come and see.”

-

-Not quite understanding him, she suffered him to lead her into the

-laboratory; but, on crossing the threshold, she uttered a cry of

-horror. Stretched on a sofa, lay Baptisto, moveless, and, to all

-seeming, without one breath of life. His eyes were wide open, but

-rayless; his jaw fixed, his face pale as grey marble; a peaceful

-smile, as of death itself, upon his handsome face. The light of the

-sun, just sinking towards the west, streamed in through the high

-window upon the apparently lifeless form. In the chamber itself there

-was a sickly smell, like that of some suffocating vapour. The whole

-scene would have startled and appalled even a strong man.

-

-“Oh, George!” cried the lady, clasping her hands. “What have you

-done?”

-

-“Don’t be alarmed,” was the reply, “Its all right!”

-

-“But you said the experiment-----

-

-“Was successful? Perfectly. There lies our poor friend, comfortably

-finished.”

-

-“But are you sure, quite sure, that he is not dead? He is not

-breathing.”

-

-“Of course not. The simulation is perfect. Place your hand on his

-wrist--you will detect no pulse. Turn his pupils to the light--you

-see, they do not contract. The case would deceive a whole college of

-physicians.”

-

-As he spoke, he suited the action to the word--placed his finger upon

-the pulse, gazed at the glazing pupils; raised one of the lifeless

-arms, which, on being released, fell heavily as lead.

-

-“Horrible, horrible! For God’s sake, recover him!”

-

-“All in good time. He has only been dead a quarter of an hour; in half

-an hour precisely I shall say, ‘Arise and walk.’ Feel his forehead,

-Nell; it is as cold as marble.”

-

-But Ellen drew back, shuddering, and could not be persuaded to touch

-the sleeper.

-

-“Well, go back to your promenade. I will call you when he is

-awakened.” Sick and terrified, Ellen obeyed her husband. Standing on

-the terrace, she waited for his summons; and at last it came. Haldane

-appeared, and beckoned; she followed him to the laboratory, and there,

-seated in an armchair, comfortably sipping a glass of wine, was the

-Spaniard--a little pale still, but otherwise not the worse for his

-state of coma.

-

-“Thank God!” cried Ellen.

-

-“I thought he would never recover. But it must have been a horrible

-experience.”

-

-Baptisto smiled.

-

-“Tell the signora all about it,” said his master. “Did you feel any

-pain?”

-

-“None, senor.”

-

-“What were your sensations? Pleasant or otherwise?”

-

-“Quite pleasant, senor. It was like sinking into an agreeable sleep.

-If death is like that, it is a bagatelle.”

-

-“Were you at all conscious?”

-

-“Not of this world, senor, but I had bright dreams of another. I

-thought I was in paradise, walking in the sunshine--ah, so bright! I

-was sorry, senor, when I came back to this world.”

-

-“You hear!” cried Haldane, turning to his wife. “After all, death

-itself may be a glorious experience; for ‘in that sleep of death what

-dreams may come!’ It is quite clear at least that all the phenomena

-of death, such as we shrink from and shudder at, may be accompanied by

-some kind of pleasant psychic consciousness. Bravo, Baptisto! After

-this, we shall call you Lazarus the second. You have passed beyond the

-shadow of the sepulchre, and returned to tell the tale.”

-

-Despite the resuscitation, Ellen still revolted from the whole

-proceeding.

-

-“Now you are satisfied,” she said, “promise me never to use that

-dreadful elixir again.”

-

-“I think you may make your mind easy. The experiment is an ugly one,

-I admit, and I am not anxious to repeat it--at least, not on the human

-organism. For the same reason, my dear Nell, pray keep the affair to

-yourself, and make no confidences, even to your confessor--I should

-say, your clergyman, Will you promise?”

-

-“Most certainly. I should not like any one to know you did such

-things. As for Mr. Santley, he would be shocked beyond measure.”

-

-So saying, she left the two men together. In the mean time, Baptisto

-had-finished his wine and risen to his feet. While his master regarded

-him with an approving smile, he walked over to the door, softly closed

-it, and returning noiselessly across the room, said in a low voice--

-

-“There is something, senor, I did not tell you. I had dreams.”

-

-“So you said, my Baptisto.”

-

-“Ah yes, but not all. While I was lying there, I thought that _you_

-were the dead man, and that the senora, your widow, had married.”

-

-“Married?”

-

-“The English priest.”

-

-Haldane started, and looked in amazement at the speaker.

-

-“What the devil do you mean?”

-

-“Ah, senor, it was only my dream; a foolish dream. You were lying

-in your winding-sheet, and they were kneeling at the altar--smiling,

-senor. I did not like to speak of it to the senora; but it was very

-strange.”

-

-Haldane forced a laugh, while, with a mysterious look, Baptisto crept

-from the chamber. Was it in sheer simplicity or in deep cunning that

-the Spaniard had spoken, touching so delicate a chord? Left alone,

-Haldane paced up and down the laboratory in agitation. He was not

-by temperament a jealous or a suspicious man, but he was troubled

-in spite of himself. The words sounded like a warning, almost an

-insinuation.

-

-“What could the fellow mean?” he asked himself again and again. “Could

-he possibly have dreamed _that?_ No; it is preposterous. There was

-malice in his eye, and mischief.... Ellen married to Santley! Bah!

-what am I thinking about? The fellow is not a _prophet!_”

-

-In this manner, whether in innocence or for some set purpose of his

-own, Baptisto contrived to poison all the sweetness of that successful

-experiment. When Haldane again joined his wife that evening, he was

-taciturn, distraught, nervous, and irritable. All his buoyancy had

-departed. Ellen saw the change, and puzzled herself to account for it.

-

-She played to him, sang to him, but failed to drive the cloud from his

-brow.

-

-When she had retired for the night, he still sat pondering over

-Baptisto’s words.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER XXV. “BEWARE, MY LORD, OF JEALOUSY!”

-

-|If Baptisto’s object in describing a dream so ominous was to attract

-his master’s attention to the intimate relations between Mrs. Haldane

-and the clergyman, he certainly succeeded. Once assured in this

-direction, Haldane’s perceptions were keen enough. He noticed that

-the mere mention of Santley’s name filled Ellen with a sort of nervous

-constraint; that, although the clergyman’s visits were frequent,

-they were generally made at times when Haldane himself was busy and

-preoccupied--that is to say, during his well-known hours of work; and

-that, moreover, Santley, however much he liked the society of the

-lady, invariably avoided the husband, or, if they met, contrived to

-frame some excuse for speedy parting. Now, Haldane trusted his wife

-implicitly, and believed her incapable of any infidelity, even in

-thought. Still, he did not quite like the aspect of affairs. Much as

-he trusted his wife, he had a strong moral distrust for anything in

-the shape of a priest; and he determined, therefore, to keep his eyes

-upon the clergyman.

-

-A few days after that curious physiological experiment, he had the

-following conversation with Baptisto. It was the first day of the

-week.

-

-“Baptisto, I thought you were a good Catholic?”

-

-“So I am, senor,” returned the Spaniard, smiling.

-

-“Yet you went to an English church-yesterday, I hear?”

-

-“Yes, senor. I go there very often.”

-

-“Why, pray?”

-

-“Simply out of curiosity. Mr. Santley is a beautiful preacher, and has

-a silvery voice. While you were away, I went once, twice, three times.

-There is a young senora there who plays sweetly upon the great organ;

-I like to listen, to-watch the congregation.”

-

-“Humph! By-the-bye, Baptisto, I have been thinking over the dream of

-yours, when--when you were lying there.”

-

-“Yes, senor?”

-

-“Pray, what put such a foolish idea in your head?”

-

-“I cannot tell, senor; all I know is, it came. A foolish dream, do you

-say? I suppose it is because the clergyman was here so often, when you

-were away. And madame is so devout! I trust, senor, my dream has not

-given you offence; perhaps I was wrong to speak of it at all.”

-

-Haldanes face had gone black as a thunder-cloud. Placing his hand on

-the other’s shoulder, and looking firmly into his face, he said--

-

-“Listen to me, Baptisto.”

-

-“I am listening, senor.”

-

-“If I thought you would come back to life to tell lies about your

-mistress, I would have let you lie the other day and rot like a dead

-dog, rather than have recovered you at all. You hear? Take care! I

-know you do not love your mistress, but if you dare to whisper one

-word against her, I will drive you for ever from my door.”

-

-Baptisto bowed his head respectfully before the storm, but retained

-his usual composure.

-

-“Senor, may I speak?”

-

-“Yes; but again, take care!”

-

-“You should not blame me if I am jealous for your honour!”

-

-Haldane started, and uttered an expletive.

-

-“My honour, you dog? What do you mean?”

-

-“This, senor. I would rather die than give you offence; and as for

-the senora, I love her also, for is she not your wife? But will you be

-angry still, when I tell you, when I warn you, to beware of that man,

-that priest? He is a bad man, very bad. Ah, I have watched--and seen!”

-

-“What have you seen?” cried Haldane, clutching him by the arm. “Come,

-out with it!”

-

-“Enough to show me that he is not your friend--that he is dangerous.”

-

-“Bah! is that all? Now, listen to me, and be sure I mean what I say.

-I will have no servant of mine spying upon my wife. I will have no

-servant of mine insinuating that my honour is in danger. If I hear

-another word of this, if you convey to me by one look the fact that

-you are still prying, spying, and suspecting, I shall take you by the

-collar and send you flying out of my house. Now, go!”

-

-Baptisto, who knew his master’s temper perfectly, bowed and withdrew.

-He had no wish to say one word more. He had thrown out a dark hint, a

-black seed of suspicion, and he knew that he might safely let it work.

-It did work, rapidly and terribly. Left alone, Haldane became a prey

-to the wildest fears and suspicions. He remembered now that his wife

-had been acquainted with this man in her girlhood; that there had even

-been some passage of love between them. He remembered how eagerly

-she had renewed the acquaintance, and with what admiring zeal the

-clergyman had responded. He pictured to himself the sympathetic

-companionship, the zealous meetings, the daily religious intercourse,

-of these two young people, each full of the fervour of a blind

-superstition. Could it be possible that they loved each other?

-Questioning his memory, he recalled looks, words, tones, which,

-although scarcely noticed at the time, seemed now of painful

-significance. The mere thought was sickening. Already he realized the

-terrible phrase-of the poet Young--“the jealous are the damned.”

-

-Haldane was not habitually a violent man. Though passionate and

-headstrong by temperament, he had schooled himself to gentleness after

-a stormy youth, and the chilly waters of philosophy, at which he drank

-daily, kept his head cool and his pulses calm. But the stormy spirit,

-though hushed, was not altogether dead within him, and under his

-habitual reticence and good-humoured cynicism, there lay the most

-passionate idolatry for his beautiful wife. He had set her up in his

-heart of hearts, with a faith too perfect for much expression; and it

-had not occurred to him, in his remotest dreams, that any other man

-could ever come between them.

-

-And now, suddenly as a lightning flash illumining a dark landscape,

-the fear came upon him that perhaps he had been unwary and unwise. Was

-it possible, he asked himself, that he had’ been too studious and too

-book-loving, too reticent also in all those little attentions

-which by women, who always love sweetmeats, are so tenderly prized?

-Moreover, he was ten years his wife’s, elder--was that disparity of

-years also a barrier between their souls? No; he was sure it was not.

-He was sure that she was not hypocritical, and that she loved him.

-Wherever the blame might be, if blame there were, it was certainly not

-hers. She had been in all respects, a tender and a sympathetic wife;

-encouraging his deep study of science, even when she most distrusted

-its results; proud of his attainments, and eager for his success; in

-short, a perfect helpmate, but for her old-fashioned prejudices in

-the sphere of religion. Ah, _religion!_ There was the one word which

-solved the enigma, and aroused in our philosopher’s bosom that fierce

-indignation which long ago led Lucretius into such passionate hate

-against the Phantom,=

-

-```"Which with horrid head

-

-```Leered hideously from all the gates of heaven!”=

-

-It needed only this to complete his loathing for the popular theology,

-for all its teachers. Yes, he reflected, religion only was to blame.

-In its name, his wife’s sympathies had been tampered with, her spirit

-more or less turned against himself; in its name, his house had been

-secretly invaded, his domestic happiness poisoned, his peace of

-mind destroyed. It was the old story! Wherever this shadow of

-superstition crawled, craft and dissimulation began. Now, as in the

-beginning, it came between father and child, sister and brother, man

-and wife.

-

-It so happened that when George Haldane came forth from having his

-dark hour alone, he rather avoided meeting his wife at once, and,

-taking his hat, stepped out from the laboratory on to the shrubbery

-path. He had scarcely done so, when his eye fell upon two figures

-standing together in the distance, upon the terrace of the house. One

-was Mrs. Haldane, wearing her garden hat and a loose shawl thrown over

-her shoulders. The other was the clergyman of the parish.

-

-Haldane drew back, and watched. In that moment he knew the extent of

-his humiliation; for never before had he been a spy upon his wife’s

-actions.

-

-Their backs were towards him. Santley was talking eagerly; Ellen was

-looking down. Presently they began to move slowly along the terrace,

-side by side.

-

-Haldane watched them gloomily. The sunlight fell brightly upon them,

-and on the old Manor house, with its brilliant creepers and glittering

-panes, while the old chapel, with the watcher in its ruined porch,

-remained in shadow. It seemed like an omen. In the darkness of his

-hiding-place, Haldane felt satanic. Yes, there they walked--children

-of God, as they called themselves--in God’s sunlight; and he, the

-searcher for light, the unbeliever, was forgotten.

-

-Presently Santley paused again, and, with an impassioned gesture,

-pointed upward. Ellen raised her head, and looked upward too,

-listening eagerly to his words. Haldane laughed fiercely to himself,

-with all the ugliness of his jealousy upon him.

-

-Presently they disappeared into the house. A little afterwards Santley

-emerged from the front door, and came walking rapidly down the avenue.

-His manner was eager and happy, almost jubilant, and Haldane saw, when

-he approached, that his face looked positively radiant.

-

-He was passing, when Haldane stepped out and confronted him. He

-started, paused, and a shadow fell instantaneously upon his handsome

-face. Recovering himself, he held out his hand. Haldane did not seem

-to see the gesture, but, nodding a careless greeting, said, with his

-habitual _sang froid_--

-

-“Well met, Mr. Santley. Here I am again, you see, hard at work. Have

-you come from the house?”

-

-“Yes,” answered Santley.

-

-“On some new message of Christian charity and beneficence, I suppose?

-Ah, my dear sir, you are indefatigable. And the old women of the parish

-must indeed find you a Good Shepherd. Did you find my wife at home?”

-

-“Yes.”

-

-“And zealous, as usual, I suppose?’ Ah, what a thing it is to be

-pious! But let me beg you not to encourage her too much. Charity

-begins at home; and what with soup-kitchens, offertories,

-subscriptions for church repairs, and societies for the gratuitous

-distribution of flannel waistcoats, I am in a fair way of being

-ruined.”

-

-Santley forced a laugh.

-

-“Don’t be afraid. My errand to-day was not a begging one, I assure

-you.”

-

-“I am glad to hear it.”

-

-“I was merely bringing Mrs. Haldane a book I promised to lend her. To

-tell the truth, she finds your library rather destitute of works of a

-religious nature.”

-

-“Do you really think so?” exclaimed Haldane, drily. “Why, I thought

-it unusually well provided in that respect. Let me see! There are

-Volney’s ‘Ruins of Empire,’ Monboddo’s ‘Dissertations,’ Drummond’s

-‘Academical Questions,’ excellent translations of Schopenhauer and

-Hartmann, not to speak of thirty-six volumes of Diderot, and fifty of

-Arouet.”

-

-Santley opened his eyes in horror and astonishment.

-

-“Arouet!” he ejaculated. “Do you actually mean to call Voltaire a

-religious writer?”

-

-“Highly so. There is religion even in ‘La Pucelle,’ but it reaches its

-culmination in the ‘Philosophical Dictionary.’”

-

-“And you would actually let Mrs. Haldane read such works as those?”

-

-“Certainly; though, am sorry to say, she prefers ‘The Old Helmet’ and

-the ‘Heir of Redclyffe.’ May I ask the name of the work you have been

-good enough to lend her?”

-

-“It is a book from which I myself have received great benefit--Père

-Hyacinthes ‘Sermons.’”

-

-“Père Hyacinthe?” repeated Haldane. “Ah! the jolly priest who

-reverenced celibacy, and proclaimed himself the father of a strapping

-boy. Well, the man was at least honest. I think all clergymen should

-marry, and at as early an age as possible. What is your opinion?”

-

-Santley flushed to the temples, while Haldane watched him with a

-gloomy smile.

-

-“I think--I am sure,” he stammered, “that the married state is the

-happiest--perhaps the holiest.”

-

-“With these sentiments, of which I cordially approve, why the deuce

-are you a bachelor?”

-

-The clergyman winced at the question, and his colour deepened; then,

-as if musing, he glanced round towards the house--a look which was

-observed and fully appreciated by his tormentor.

-

-“I am sure my wife would encourage you to change your condition. Like

-most women, she is by instinct a matchmaker.”

-

-Santley did not seem to hear; at any rate, he made no reply, but,

-holding out his hand quickly, exclaimed--

-

-“I must go now. I am rather in haste.”

-

-Haldane did not take the hand, but put his arm upon the clergyman’s

-shoulder.

-

-“Well, good day,” he said. “Take my advice, though, and get a sensible

-wife as soon as possible.”

-

-Santley tried to smile, but only succeeded in looking more pale and

-nervous than usual. With a few murmured words of adieu, he moved

-rapidly away.

-

-Haldane watched him thoughtfully until he disappeared down the avenue.

-

-“I wonder if that man can smile?” he said to himself. “No; I am afraid

-he is too horribly in earnest. I suppose, the women would call

-him handsome--_spiritual_; but I hate such pallid, waxen-featured,

-handsome dolls. A pretty shepherd, that, for a Christian flock to

-follow; a fellow who makes his very ignorance of this world constitute

-his claim to act as cicerone to the next. Fancy being jealous,

-actually _jealous_, of such a thing as that!”

-

-He turned back into his laboratory and tried to dismiss Baptisto’s

-suggestion from his mind; but it was impossible. He could not disguise

-from himself that Santley, with his seraphic face and sad, earnest

-eyes, was the kind of creature whom the weaker sex adore, and that he

-was rendered doubly dangerous to women by the radiant mesmerism of a

-fascinating and voluptuous celestial superstition.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER XXVI. FIRST LEAVES FROM A PHILOSOPHER NOTE-BOOK.

-

-|I am about to set down, in as concise a manner as possible, and at

-present solely for my private edification (some day, perhaps, another

-eye may read the lines, but not yet), certain events which have

-lately influenced my domestic life. Were it not that even a professed

-scientist might decline to publish experiments affecting his own

-private happiness, the description of the events to which I allude

-might almost form a chapter in my slowly progressing “Physiology of

-Ethics,” and the description would be at least as interesting as

-many of Ferriers accounts of vivisection on dumb animals. But,

-unfortunately, I am unable, in this case, to apply the dissecting

-knife to my neighbours heart, without laying bare the ugly wound in my

-own.

-

-To begin then, I, George Haldane, recluse, pessimist, moral

-physiologist, and would-be moral philosopher, have discovered, at

-forty years of age, that I am capable of the most miserable of all

-human passions; worse, that this said ignoble passion of jealousy has

-a certain rational foundation. For ten years I have been happy with

-a wife who seemed the perfection of human gentleness and beauty; who,

-although unfortunately we have been blest with no offspring, has shown

-the tenderest solicitude and sympathy for the children of my brain;

-and who, in her wifely faith and sanctity, seemed to be the sole link

-still holding me to a church whose history has always filled me with

-abhorrence, and a religion whose infantine theology I despise. Well,

-_nous avons changé tout cela_. My mind is no longer peaceful, my

-hearth no longer sacred; and the woman I love seems slowly drifting

-from me on a stream of sensuous spiritualism--another name for a

-religious rehabilitation of the flesh.

-

-If any other man were the victim, I should think the situation highly

-absurd. Here, on the one hand, is a fanatical Protestant priest, with

-the face of a seraphic monk, the experience of a schoolgirl, and the

-_gaucherie_ of a country chorister who has never grown a beard; a

-fellow whose sole claims to notice are his white hands, his clean

-linen, and his function as a silly shepherd; a man fresh from college,

-ignorant of the world. Here, on the other hand, am I, physically and

-intellectually his master, knowing almost every creed beneath the

-sun, and the slave of none; indifferent to vulgar human passions, and

-disposed to disintegrate them one and all with the electric current of

-a negative philosophy. Between us both, trembling this way and that,

-is that fair thing of flesh and blood, my wife, zealous to save her

-own soul alive, and fearful at times, I fancy, that I have sold mine

-to the Prince of Darkness. It is another version of science against

-superstition, common sense against a lie; and Ellen Haldane is the

-prize. A fiery Spaniard, like Baptisto yonder, would end the affair

-with a stiletto-thrust; but I, of colder blood, am not likely to do

-anything so courageous or so foolish, but am content to watch and

-watch, and to feel the sick contamination of my suspicion creeping

-over me like an unwholesome mildew. A stiletto thrust? Why, the mere

-tongue, a less fatal weapon, would do it all. If I could only summon

-up the courage to say to my wife, “I know your secret; choose between

-this man and me, between his creed and mine, between your duty as a

-wife and your zeal as a Christian,” I fancy there would be an end

-to it all. But I am too timorous; I suppose, too ashamed of my

-suspicions, too proud to acknowledge so contemptible a rival. As

-a Spaniard covers his face with his mantle, I veil my soul with my

-pride; and, under the mantle of unsuspicion, rest irresolute, while

-the thing grows.

-

-Once or twice, I have thought of another way--of taking my wife by the

-hand and saying, “To-morrow, my dear, we shall leave this place, and

-return to Spain or Italy--some quiet place abroad.” I could easily

-find an excuse for the migration, which, once effected, would make an

-end of the affair. But that, in my opinion, would be too cowardly. It

-would, indeed, be an admission that the danger was real and imminent;

-that, in other words, the fight for honour could only be saved by an

-ignominious retreat. No; Ellen Haldane must take her chance. If she is

-not strong enough to hold out against evil, then let her go--_au bon

-Dieu_ or _au bon diable_, as either leads.

-

-Yet what am I saying? It is precisely because I have the utmost

-faith in her purity of heart that I watch the struggle with a certain

-patience. I believe there will be a victim, but not my Ellen. Surely,

-if there is a good woman in the world, she is that woman. As for the

-other, every day, every hour, brings the cackling creature further

-and further into my decoy. Even if he tried to turn back now, I do

-not think I should let him. No; let him swim in and on, and in and on,

-till he reaches the place where I, like the decoy man, can catch him

-fluttering, and--wring his neck? Perhaps.

-

-It is quite clear that the man takes me for an idiot. At first he used

-precautions, invented subterfuges; latterly, certain of my stupidity

-or indifference, he comes and goes without disguise. When I meet him

-driving side by side of my wife in the phaeton, on some pretended

-errand of mercy, he gives me a careless bow, a nod. As he goes by my

-den, on his way to invite her out to visit his sister or his church,

-he makes no excuse, but passes jauntily, with a conversational pat for

-the stupid watch-dog: that is all. It would be amusing, I say, if it

-were not almost insufferable.

-

-This afternoon, as Ellen was going out, I blankly suggested that she

-should stay at home.

-

-“But you are busy,” she said--“always busy with your books and

-experiments.”

-

-“Not too busy, my dear Nell, for a _tête-à-tête_ with you. Where are

-you going? To the Vicarage?”

-

-“Yes.”

-

-“To see the parson, or his sister?”

-

-“Both. We have a great deal to discuss, about the designs for the new

-stained-glass windows, which have just come from London.”

-

-“Very interesting; but they will keep for a day. I fancy I could show

-you something quite as interesting, in my laboratory.”

-

-“I hate the laboratory,” she cried, “and those horrible experiments.”

-

-“My dear, you should not hate what your husband loves.”

-

-“I don’t mean that I hate them, quite; but I think them so useless!”

-

-“More useless than stained-glass windows?”

-

-“It is certainly not useless to beautify the House of God. Oh, I do

-so wish you could feel as I do about these things! What is the world

-without them?”

-

-“Without stained-glass windows?” I suggested sarcastically.

-

-She flushed impatiently.

-

-“George, why have you such a dislike for religion? Why do you hate

-everything I love?”

-

-“Pardon me, my dear Nell, it was _you_, not I, that spoke of hating.

-Philosophers never hate.”

-

-“But you do worse; you despise it. Thank God we have no children. It

-would be horrible to tell them that their father forbade them to go to

-church, or pray!”

-

-It was like a stab into my heart of hearts, that cry of thanks to God.

-Despite myself, I lost my composure. She saw it instantly, and in the

-manner of her sex, encroached.

-

-“Oh, George, do try to think sometimes of these things, for my sake!

-You would be so much happier, you surely would have so much more

-blessing, if you sometimes prayed.”

-

-“How do you know that I do not pray?”

-

-“Because you do not believe.”

-

-“I do not believe precisely as your priest believes, that is all.”

-

-She looked at me eagerly; then, after a moments hesitation, cried--

-

-“George, if I asked a favour, would you grant it?”

-

-“Try.”

-

-“Let Mr. Santley come sometimes, and speak with you about God!”

-

-This was too much, almost, for even me to bear with equanimity. I am

-afraid I did not look particularly amiable as I answered, sharp and

-short, turning from her--

-

-“After all, I think you had better go and look at those designs.”

-

-“There, you are angry again!” she cried; and I knew by the sound of

-her voice that her throat was choked with tears. “You are always angry

-when I touch upon religion.”

-

-“You were not talking of religion,” I retorted; “you were talking of

-that man.”

-

-“Why do you dislike him so? Because he is a preacher of the Word?”

-

-“Because he is a canting hypocrite, like all his tribe,” I cried.

-

-She saw that I had lost my temper, as was inevitable, and, sighing

-deeply, moved to the door. I followed her with my eyes. I would have

-given the world to call her back; to clasp her in my arms; to tell her

-my aching fears; to promise her I would worship any God she choose, in

-any place, in any way, so long as she would only be true, and answer

-my eager impulse with a little love. But I was too proud for that.

-

-“Then you are going?” I said.

-

-She turned, looking at me very sadly.

-

-“Yes, if you do not mind.”

-

-I shrugged my shoulders, and after another sad, reproachful look,

-she left the room. A minute afterwards, she drove her ponies past the

-window, without looking up.

-

-_Thursday, September_ 15.--A golden autumn day, so warm and still

-that it reminded me of the Indian summer. Not a leaf stirred, but the

-insects in the air were like floating blossoms, and seemed to sleep

-upon their wings. Even all round my den the shadows were sultry, and

-intertangled with slumberous shafts of light.

-

-This fine weather rather disappointed me, for I had arranged for

-a day’s recreation. In my youth, before I was caught myself in the

-tedious snares of speculation, I used to be an ardent fisherman, and

-I still retain sufficient knowledge of the gentle craft to cast a fly

-tolerably. So, tired of work, and a little weary of my own thoughts, I

-determined, for the first time, to take advantage of the permission my

-neighbour, Lord --------, has given me, and spend a day upon the river

-banks.

-

-Despite the sunshine, and the absence of even a breath of wind, I

-shouldered my basket, lifted my rod, and set off. Ellen was already

-out and about; so I did not see her before I started. Taking a short

-cut through the shrubberies, I soon came to the banks of the Emmet--as

-pretty a little stream as ever rippled over golden sands, or reached

-out an azure arm to turn some merry watermill. Arrived there, I soon

-saw that it would be useless to try a cast till there was a little

-wind; so, without putting my rod together, I strolled on along the

-river-side, till I was several miles away from the Manor house.

-

-The stream was rather low, but here and there were good deep pools,

-but so calm, so sunny, that every overhanging tree, every finger of

-fern, every blade of grass, was reflected in them as in a mirror.

-Still, as the time was, the waters were full of life. Over the pools

-hung clusters of flies like glittering spiders’ webs, scarcely moving

-in the sunshine; and when, from time to time, a trout rose, he leaped

-a full foot into the golden air above him, and sank back to coolness

-beneath an ever-widening ring of light. Sometimes from the grassy edge

-of the bank a water-rat would slip, swimming rapidly across, with his

-nose just lifted above the water, and his tail leaving a thin, bright

-trail. Water-ouzels rose at every curve, following swiftly the winding

-of the stream; and twice past my feet flashed a kingfisher, like an

-azure ray.

-

-The way lay sometimes through deep grassy meadows, sometimes by

-the sides of corn-fields where the sheaves were already slanted,

-oftentimes through thick shrubberies and woods already yellow with

-the withering leaf. From time to time I passed a farm, with orchards

-sloping down to the very water’s edge, or pastures slanting down to

-shallows where the cattle waded, breaking the water to silver streaks

-and whisking their tails against the clustering swarms of gnats. It

-was very pleasant and very still, but, from a fishing point of view,

-exceedingly absurd.

-

-By-and-by, however, a faint breeze began to touch the pools, and

-putting my rod together, and selecting my finest casting-line and two

-tiny flies, I tried a cast. Fortunately the wind was blowing

-sunward, and as I faced the light, the shadow fell behind me; but,

-nevertheless, the shadow of my rod flitted about at every cast, and

-threatened to spoil my sport. My first catch was an innocent baby-fish

-as big as my thumb, who came at the fly with a rush, and fought

-desperately when hooked. When I had disengaged him, and put him back

-into the water, he simply gave a flip of his little tail, and sailed

-contemptuously and quite leisurely out of sight, making me call to

-mind, with unusual humiliation, the well-known definition which Dr.

-Johnson gave of angling--“a fish at one end of the line, and a fool at

-the other,” I had tried a good many, casts before I took my first

-respectable fish--a trout of about half a pound. I caught him in a nice

-broken bit of water, just below a quaint old water-mill; and just as I

-put him into the basket, the portly miller came out to the granary

-door, and looked at me with a dusty smile. He evidently thought me a

-lunatic, to be out with a fishing-rod on such a day.

-

-Half a mile further on I landed another glittering picture of at least

-a quarter of a pound; after that, another of half a pound; then my

-luck ceased, the wind fell, and it was full sunshine. By this time I

-had wandered a good many miles from home, and reached the spot where

-the river plunges into the Great Omberley woods. Here the stream was

-so rapid and the boughs so thick, that it was useless to think of

-casting; so I put up my rod, and, leaping over a fence, rambled away

-into the woods.

-

-How strange and dark and still it was, passing out of the sunshine

-into those shadows, deep and cool as the bottom of the sea! The oak

-trees stretched their gnarled boughs into the air, and all around them

-were the lesser trees of the wood-willow, elder, blackthorn, ash, and

-hazel. The ground beneath was carpeted with moss and grass as thick

-and soft as velvet, with thick clusters of fern and bluebells round

-the tree roots, and creepers dangling from every bough. And the wood,

-like the river, was all alive! Conies tumbled across the patches of

-light, and flitted in the shadow, like very elves of the woodland;

-squirrels ran up the gnarled tree trunks; harmless silver snakes

-glided along the moss; but here and there, swift and ominous, ran a

-weazel, darting its head this way and that, and fiercely scenting the

-air, in one eternal glitter and hurry of bloodthirsty emotion. Thrush,

-blackbird, finch, birds without number, sang overhead; save when the

-shadow of the wind-hover or the sparrow-hawk passed across the topmost

-branches, when there was a sudden and respectful silence, to be

-followed by a precipitate hurry of exultation, as the enemy passed

-away.

-

-If I had been a moralist, I might have seen in this wood a microcosm

-of the world, with its abundant happiness, its beauty, and its dark

-spots of moral ugliness and cruelty. In you, Signor Weazel (who

-came so near that I touched you with my rod, which you snapped at

-ferociously, before bolting swiftly into the deep grass), I might

-have seen the likeness of a certain sleek creature of my own sex and

-species, who dwells not very far away. Nevertheless, I let you go in

-peace; which was no mercy to the conies, I suppose.

-

-So I entered the Forest Primaeval--or such it seemed to me, as the

-blaze of sunshine faded, the boughs thickened, the air became full of

-dark shadows and ominous silence. My steps were now deep in grass and

-fern, and the scent of flowers and weeds was thick in my nostrils,

-but I chose a path where the boughs were thinnest, and quietly pushed

-through. While thus I rambled, I suppose that I fell, philosopher

-like, into a dream; at any rate, I seemed to lose all count of time.=

-

-```"The world, the life of men, dissolved away

-

-```Into a sense of dimness,"=

-

-as some poet sings. I felt primaeval--archetypal so to speak, till a

-sudden’ shifting of the vegetable kaleidoscope recalled from thoughts

-of Plato and the Archetype to a cruel consciousness of self.

-

-I was moving slowly on, when I heard the sound of voices quite close

-to me. I paused, listening, and only just in time, for in another

-moment I should have been visible to the speakers. Well shrouded in

-deep foliage, I looked out to discover what sylvan creatures were

-disporting themselves in that lonely place; and I saw--what shall I

-say? A nymph and a satyr? a dryad and a goatfooted Faun?

-

-Just beyond me, there was a broad-green road through the woodland,

-deeply carpeted with soft grass, but marked here and there with the

-broad track of a wood-waggon; and on the side of this solitary road,

-on a rude seat fashioned of two oaken stumps and a rough plank, the

-nymph was sitting. She wore a light dress of some soft material,

-a straw hat, a country cloak, and gloves of Paris kid--a civilized

-nymph, as you perceive! To complete her modern appearance, she carried

-a closed parasol, and a roll which looked like music.

-

-How pretty she looked, with the warm light playing upon her delicate

-features, and suffusing her form in its delicate drapery; with the

-semi-transparent branches behind her, and flowers of the woodland at

-her feet!

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER XXVII. THE NOTE-BOOK CONTINUED NYMPH AND SATYR.

-

-|And the satyr? Ah! I knew him at a glance, despite the elegant modern

-boots used to disguise the cloven foot.

-

-He wore black broadcloth and snowy linen, too, and a broad-brimmed

-clerical hat. His face was seraphically pale, but I saw (or fancied

-I saw) the twinkle of the hairy ears of the ignoble, sensual,

-nymph-compelling, naiad-pursuing breed.

-

-He was talking earnestly, with gestures of eager entreaty; for the

-nymph was crying, and he was offering her some kind of consolation.

-

-Presently he sat down by her side, and threw his arms around her. She

-disengaged herself from his embrace, and rose trembling to her feet.

-

-“Don’t touch me!” she cried. “That is all over now. I cannot bear it!”

-

-He rose also, and stood regarding her, not with the rapturous eyes’

-of a lover, but with a dark and gloomy gaze. Then he said, in a low

-voice, something which I could not catch. But I heard her passionate

-reply.

-

-“No, it is all over,” she cried; “and I shall never be at peace again.

-Even, if you kept your word, it would be the same. You do not love me;

-you never loved me--never!”

-

-I crept a little closer, for I was anxious to hear his answer.

-

-“I do love you, Edith; and after what has passed between us----”

-

-She shrank away with a faint, despairing cry, and put her hand to her

-face.

-

-“After what has passed between us, do you think that my love can

-change? But you are unjust to me, to yourself; too violent and too

-hard to please. I do not like to be suspected, to be watched; and it

-is painful to me, very painful, to be constantly called to an account

-by you. It is not reasonable. Even as your husband, I would not bear

-it; it would poison the peace between us, and convert our married life

-into a simple hell!”

-

-He paused; but her only answer was a sob of pain. So he sermonized on:

-

-“Between man and woman, Edith, there should be solemn confidence and

-trust. When that ceases, love is sure to cease. Why, look at me! My

-trust in you is so absolute that no action of yours could shake it;

-no matter how peculiar were the circumstances, I should be certain of

-your faith, your goodness. That is true love--absolute, implicit faith

-in the beloved object. I wish I could persuade you to imitate it.”

-

-“You know that you can trust me,” sobbed the poor child, “because I

-have: _proved_ my love.”

-

-“Have I not proved mine?” he cried, with irritation. “Have I not made

-sacrifice upon sacrifice for your sake? Have I not remained here, in

-this wretched country place, when I could have been promoted to other

-and greater spheres of action? Have I not made you my companion, my

-confidante, my nearest and dearest friend? Edith, why do you persist

-in such accusations? What must I do to signify our attachment? Shall I

-marry you at once? Speak the word, and although, as you know, it would

-involve the ruin of all my worldly projects, I will do as you desire.”

-

-I had-heard enough to convince me that the affair under discussion

-was no affair of mine, and that I had no right to continue playing the

-spy; so I was drawing back as gently as possible, and about to return

-the way I came, when I was suddenly arrested by the next words spoken.

-

-“Give up Mrs. Haldane!”

-

-I The nymph was the speaker. She stood with her wild eyes fixed upon

-the other’s face, which did not improve in beauty of expression. For

-myself, I started, stung to the quick; then I returned, trembling, to

-my place of espionage.

-

-“Give up Mrs. Haldane!” repeated the girl. “I ask nothing more than

-that. I will not force you to marry me, Charles, till it is for your

-good; indeed, if I did, I know that we should be unhappy, and that you

-would never forgive me. But you can at least cease to be so familiar

-with Mrs. Haldane.”

-

-He had discovered by this time, I suppose, that the pleading mood

-availed him little; at all events, he suddenly changed his tone, and

-with a cry of angry indignation, he exclaimed--

-

-“Edith, take care! I have told you that I will not suffer it! How dare

-you suspect that lady! How dare you!”

-

-And he stood towering over her (the satyr!) in the fulness of his

-snowy shirtfront and the whiteness of his moral indignation.

-

-“It is no use being angry,” she returned, with a certain stubbornness,

-though I could see that she was cowed, in the manner of gentle women,

-by his violent physical passion. “After what you have told me, after

-what I have seen----”

-

-“Edith, again, take care!”

-

-“You are always with her,” she continued, “night-time and day-time. I

-am amazed that Mr. Haldane does not notice it. It is the talk of the

-place.”

-

-With another exclamation, he turned his back and walked rapidly away.

-

-“Come back!” she cried hysterically. “If you leave like that, I will

-drown myself in the river.”

-

-He returned and faced her.

-

-“You will drive me mad!” he said. “I am sick of it. I am more like a

-slave than a free man. You will not suffer me even to have a friend.”

-

-“She is more than a friend. You have told me yourself, that you loved

-her.”

-

-“And so I did,” he answered, “though of course she is nothing to me

-_now_.”

-

-“Why are you always with her?”

-

-“I am interested in her, deeply interested. She is unhappy with her

-husband, and as a minister of the gospel----”

-

-With her tearful, truthful eyes, fixed so earnestly upon him, no

-wonder he paused and blushed.

-

-“Charles, do not be a hypocrite! At least be honest. She is more to

-you than a friend.”

-

-He raised his hands heavenward, in pulpit fashion, and protested.

-

-“Edith, I swear to you before God, that there is nothing whatever

-between us. She is a stainless lady, her husband does not understand

-her, I am her spiritual friend and guide.”

-

-“Yes, Charles; I understand,” she said, still earnestly watching him.

-“_Justus you were mine!_”

-

-I think it worth while to put that little sentence in italics. It was

-a home stroke, and took away the satyr’s breath.

-

-“Edith, for shame!” he cried. “You know you do not mean what you say.

-If I thought you meant it, I should break with you for ever. I

-tell you again, Mrs. Haldane is above reproach, and it is simply

-disgraceful to couple her name, in such a manner, with mine. And you

-would infer, now, that I have influenced your own life for evil;

-you would mock at my spiritual pretensions, and brand me as a base,

-unworthy creature. Well, Edith, perhaps you are right. Perhaps I have

-given you cause. I have shown you that I love you, beyond position,

-beyond the world, beyond even my own self-respect, and this is my

-return.”

-

-I could have sprung out and strangled the fellow, he was so cruel

-and yet so plausible, so superbly selfish and yet so completely

-self-deceiving; and I saw that with every word he uttered he gained a

-fresh hold over the heart of the pretty fool who was listening. While

-he spoke, she sobbed as if her little heart was ready to break; and

-when he ceased, she eagerly held out her arms.

-

-“Oh, Charles, don’t say that! Don’t say that my love has been a curse

-to you!”

-

-“You drive me to say it,” he answered moodily; “you make me miserable

-with your jealousy, your suspicion.”

-

-“Don’t say that I make you miserable--don’t!” she sobbed.

-

-“You used to be so different,” he continued, still preserving his tone

-of moral injury; “you used to be so interested in my work, my daily

-duties. Now, you do nothing but reproach me; and why? Because I have

-found an old friend, who happens to be of your own sex, but who is far

-above the folly of a meaningless flirtation, and who little deserves

-the cruel slur you cast upon her. Am I, then, to have no friends, no

-acquaintances? Is every step I take to be measured by the unreasoning

-suspicion of a jealous woman?”

-

-By this time she had put her arms about his neck, and was sobbing on

-his breast.

-

-“Oh, Charles, don’t be so hard with me! It is all because I love

-you--ah, so much!”

-

-“But you should conquer these wicked feelings----”

-

-“I try! I try!”

-

-“You should have more confidence, more faith. You know how much I

-care for you.”

-

-“Yes; but sometimes I feel afraid. Mrs. Haldane is so much cleverer,

-so much more beautiful, than I am, and she was your first love. They

-say men never love twice.”

-

-“That is nonsense, Edith.”

-

-“But you do love me, dear? you do?”

-

-Ugh, the satyr! He answered her with kisses, straining her to his

-heart and she, sobbing and clinging round him, was quite conquered.

-I felt sick to see her at his mercy. Then their voices sank, and he

-whispered, and I saw the bright blood mount to her cheek and brow.

-But, alas! she did not shrink away any more.

-

-Then whispering and kissing, with eyes of passion fixed upon one

-another, they moved away, taking a lonely path into the woods beyond

-me. My first impulse was to follow them, and to tear them asunder.

-But after all, I reflected it was no affair of mine, and I knew now,

-moreover, that nothing in the world would save her from him--or from

-herself. .

-

-

-END OF VOL. II.

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Foxglove Manor, Volume II (of III), by

-Robert W. Buchanan

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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 48472 ***
+
+FOXGLOVE MANOR
+
+A Novel
+
+By Robert W. Buchanan
+
+In Three Volumes, Vol. I.
+
+London
+
+Chatto And Windos, Piccadilly
+
+1884
+
+
+
+
+FOXGLOVE MANOR.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV. BAPTISTO STAYS AT HOME.
+
+|As Haldane sat in his study, the evening previous to the morning
+fixed for his journey to London, Baptisto entered quickly and stood
+before the desk at which his master was busily writing.
+
+“Can I speak to you, senor?” Haldane looked and nodded.
+
+“What is it, Baptisto?”
+
+“You have arranged that I shall go with you to-morrow, but I have had
+during the last few days an attack of my old vertigo. Can you possibly
+dispense with my attendance, senor?” Haldane stared in surprise at the
+Spaniards face, which was inscrutable as usual.
+
+“Do you mean to say you wish to remain at home?”
+
+“Certainly, senor.”
+
+“Why? because you are ill? On the contrary, you look in excellent
+health. No; it is impossible. I cannot get along without you.”
+
+And Haldane returned to his papers as if the matter was ended.
+
+Baptisto, however, did not budge, but remained in the same position,
+with his dark eyes fixed upon his master.
+
+“Do me this favour, senor. I am really indisposed, and must beg to
+remain.”
+
+Haldane laughed, for an idea suddenly occurred to him which seemed to
+explain the mystery of his servant’s request.
+
+“My good Baptisto, I think I understand the cause of your complaint,
+and I am sure a little travel will do you good. It is that dark-eyed
+widow of the lodge-keeper who attaches you so much to the Manor. The
+warm blood of Spain still burns in your veins, and, despite your sad
+experience of women, you are still impressionable. Eh? am I right?”
+
+Baptisto quickly shook his head, with the least suspicion of a smile
+upon his swarthy face.
+
+“I am not impressionable, senor, and I do not admire your English
+women; but I wish to remain all the same.”
+
+“Nonsense!”
+
+“Nonsense! In serious lament, senor, I beseech you to allow me to
+remain.”
+
+But Haldane was not to be persuaded at what he conceived to be a mere
+whim of his servant. He still believed that Baptisto had fallen a
+captive to the charms of Mrs. Feme, a little plump, dark-eyed woman,
+with a large family. He had frequently of late seen the Spaniard
+hanging about the lodge--on one occasion nursing and dandling the
+youngest child--and he had smiled to himself, thinking that the poor
+fellow’s misanthropy, or rather his misogynism, was in a fair way of
+coming to an end.
+
+Finding his master indisposed to take his request seriously, Baptisto
+retired; and presently Haldane strolled into the drawing-room, where
+he found his wife.
+
+“Have you heard of the last freak of Baptisto? He actually wants to
+remain at ease, instead of accompanying me in my journey.”
+
+Ellen looked up from some embroidery, in which she was busily engaged.
+
+“On no account!” she exclaimed. “If you don’t take him with you, I.
+shall not stay in the place.”
+
+“Dear me! said the philosopher. Surely you are not afraid of poor
+Baptisto!”
+
+“Not afraid of him exactly, but he makes me shiver. He comes and goes
+like a ghost, and when you least expect him, he is at your elbow.
+Then, of course, I cannot help remembering he has committed a murder!”
+
+“Nothing of the kind,” said Haldane, laughing and throwing himself
+into a chair. “My dear Ellen, you don’t believe the whole truth of
+that affair. True, he surprised that Spanish wife of his with her
+gallant, whom he stabbed; but I have it on excellent authority that it
+was a kind of duello; the other man was armed, and so it was a fair
+fight.” Ellen shuddered, and showed more nervous agitation than her
+husband could quite account for.
+
+“Take him away with you,” she cried; “take him away. If you never
+bring him back, I shall rejoice. If I had been consulted, he would
+never have been brought to England.”
+
+A little later in the evening, when Haldane had returned to his
+papers, which he was diligently finishing to take away with him, he
+rang and summoned the Spaniard to his presence.
+
+“Well, it is all settled. I have consulted your mistress, and she
+insists in your accompanying me to-morrow.”
+
+A sharp flash came upon Baptisto’s dark eyes. He made an angry
+gesture; then controlling himself, he said in a low, emphatic voice--
+
+“The _senora_ means it? _She_ does not wish me to remain?”
+
+“Just so.”
+
+“May I ask why?
+
+“Only because she does not want you, and I do. Between ourselves, she
+is not quite so certain of you as I am. She has never forgotten that
+little affair in Spain.”
+
+Again the dark eyes flashed, and again there was the same angry
+gesture, instantly checked.
+
+Haldane continued.
+
+“You are violent sometimes, my Baptisto, and madame is a little afraid
+of you. When she knows you better, as I know you, she will be aware
+that you are rational; at present----”
+
+“At present, senor,” said Baptisto, “she would rather not have me so
+near. Ah, I can understand! Perhaps she has reason to be afraid.”
+
+Something in the man’s manner, which was sinister and almost
+threatening, jarred upon his master’s mind. Rising from his chair,
+Haldane stood with his back to the fire, and, with a frown, regarded
+the Spaniard, as, he said--
+
+“Listen to me, Baptisto. I have noticed with great annoyance,
+especially of late, that your manner to madame has been strange, not
+to say sullen. You are whimsical still, and apt to take offence. If
+this goes on, if you fail in respect to your mistress, and make your
+presence uncomfortable in this house, we shall have to part.”
+
+To Haldane’s astonishment, Baptisto asked an explanation, and, falling
+on his knees, seized his master’s hand and kissed it eagerly,
+“Senor! Senor! you don’t comprehend. You don’t think I am ungrateful,
+that I do not remember? But you are wrong. I would die to save
+you--yes, I would die; and I would kill with my own hand any one who
+did you an injury. I am your servant, your slave--ah yes, till death.”
+
+“Come, get up, and go and finish packing my things.”
+
+“But, senor----”
+
+“Get up, I say.”
+
+The Spaniard rose, and with folded hands and bent head stood waiting.
+
+“Get ready like a sensible fellow, and let us have no more of this
+foolery. There, there, I understand. You are exciting yourself for
+nothing.”
+
+“Then, I am to go, senor?”
+
+“Certainly.”
+
+Early the next morning Baptisto entered the carriage with his master,
+and was driven to the railway station, some seven miles away. As they
+went along, Haldane noticed that the man looked very ill, and that
+from time to time he put his hand to his head as if in pain. At the
+railway station, while they were waiting for the train, matters looked
+most serious. Suddenly the Spaniard fell forward on the platform as
+if in strong convulsions, his eyes starting out of his head, his mouth
+foaming. They sprinkled water on his face, chafed his hands, and with
+some difficulty brought him round.
+
+“The devil!” muttered Haldane to himself. “It looks like epilepsy!”
+ Baptisto was placed on a seat, and lay back ghastly pale, as if
+utterly exhausted.
+
+“Are you better now?” asked Haldane, bending over him.
+
+“A little better, senor.”
+
+But seeing him so utterly helpless, and likely to have other seizure,
+Haldane rapidly calculated in his own mind the inexpediency of taking
+him away on a long railway journey. After all, the poor fellow had not
+exaggerated his condition, when he had pleaded illness as an excuse
+for remaining at home.
+
+“After all,” said Haldane, “I think you will have to remain behind.”
+
+Baptisto opened his eyes feebly, and stretched out his hands.
+
+“No, senor; since you wish it, I will go.”
+
+“You shall remain,” answered Haldane, just as the whistle of the
+coming train was heard in the distance. “Perhaps, if you are better
+in a day or two, you can follow; but you will go away now in the
+carriage, and send over to Dr. Spruce, and he will prescribe for you.”
+
+Baptisto did not answer, but, taking his masters hand, kissed it
+gratefully. The train came up. Haldane entered a carriage, and, gazing
+from the window as the train began to move on, saw Baptisto still
+seated on the platform, very pale, his eyes half closed, his head
+recumbent. Near him stood the station master, a railway porter, and
+the groom who had driven them over from the Manor, all regarding him
+with languid curiosity.
+
+But the moment the train was gone, Baptisto began to recover. Rising
+to his feet, and refusing all offers of assistance from the others,
+he strolled out of the station, and quietly mounted the dog-cart. The
+groom got up beside him, and they drove homeward through the green
+lanes.
+
+Now, Baptisto was a gentleman, and seldom entered or tolerated
+familiarity from his fellow-servants. Had it been otherwise, the groom
+might have asked the explanation of his curious conduct; for no sooner
+was he mounted on the dogcart, and driving along in the fresh air,
+than the Spaniard seemed to forget all about his recent illness, sat
+erect like a man in perfect health, and exhibited none of the curious
+symptoms which had so alarmed his master.
+
+And when the groom, who was a thirsty individual, suggested that
+they should make a detour and call at the Blue Boar Inn for a little
+stimulant, chiefly as a corrective to the attack from which his
+companion had just suffered, the Spaniard turned his dark eyes round
+about him and actually winked. This proceeding so startled the groom
+that he almost dropped the reins, for never in the whole course of his
+sojourn had the foreign gent condescended to such a familiarity.
+
+They drove round to the Blue Boar, however, and the groom consumed the
+brandy, while Baptisto, who was a teetotaller, had some lemonade, and
+lit his cigar. Then they drove home to the Manor, Baptisto sitting
+with folded arms, completely and absolutely recovered.
+
+About noon that day, as Mrs. Haldane moved about the conservatory,
+looking after her roses, a servant announced the Rev. Mr. Santley.
+Ellen flushed, a little startled at the announcement, coming so soon
+after her husband’s departure, and her first impulse was to deny
+herself; but before she could do so the clergyman himself appeared at
+the door of the conservatory.
+
+“You are an early visitor,” she said coldly, bending her face over the
+flowers.
+
+“It is just noon,” answered the clergyman, “and I was going home from
+a sick-call. Has Mr. Haldane gone?”
+
+“Yes. Did you wish to see him?”
+
+“Not particularly, though I had a little commission which I might have
+asked him to execute had I been in time.” Surely the man’s fall had
+already begun. Ellen knew perfectly well that he was lying. In
+point of fact, he had seen the dog-cart drive past on the way to the
+station, and he had been unable to resist the temptation of coming
+over without delay.
+
+With face half averted, Ellen led the way into the drawing-room, and
+on to the terrace beyond, from which there was a pleasant view of the
+Manor, the plain, and the surrounding country. Just below the gardens
+were laid out in flowerbeds and gravel walks; but the dark shrubberies
+were beyond, and at a little distance, well in the shadow of the
+trees, the old chapel.
+
+There was a long silence. Ellen stood silent, gazing upon the woods
+and lawn, while the clergyman stood just behind her, evidently
+regarding her.
+
+At last she could bear it no longer, but, turning quickly, exclaimed--
+
+“Why did you come? Have you anything to say to me?”
+
+“Nothing, Ellen, if you are angry,” replied the clergyman.
+
+“Angry! You surely know best if I have cause. After what has passed, I
+think it is better that we should not meet,” she added in a low voice.
+“At least, not often.”
+
+He saw she was agitated, and he took a certain pleasure in her
+agitation, for it showed him that she was not quite unsusceptible to
+the influence he might bring to bear upon her. As he stood there, his
+sad eyes fixed upon her, his being conscious of every movement she
+made, of every breath she drew, he felt again the deep fatality of his
+passion, and silently yielded to it.
+
+There was another long pause, which he was the first to break.
+
+“Do you know, Ellen, I sometimes tremble for you, when I think of your
+husbands opinions. In time you may learn to share them, and then we
+should be further apart than ever. At present, it is my sole comfort
+to know you possess that living faith without which every soul is
+lost.”
+
+“Lost?” she repeated, in a bewildering way, not looking at him.
+
+“I don’t mean in the vulgar sense; the theological ideas of damnation
+have never had my sanction, far less my sympathy. But materialism
+degrades the believer, and sooner or later comes a disbelief in all
+that is holy, beautiful, and sanctified. It is a humble creed, the new
+creed of science, and fatal to spiritual hopes.”
+
+“Does it matter so much what one believes, if one’s life is good?”
+
+“It matters so much that I would rather see one I loved dead before my
+feet than an avowed unbeliever. But there, I have not come to preach
+to you. When does Mr. Haldane return?”
+
+“As I told you: in a fortnight, perhaps sooner.”
+
+“And during his absence we shall meet again, I hope?”
+
+She hesitated and looked at him. His eyes were fixed on the distant
+woods, though he stood expectantly, as if awaiting her reply, which
+did not come.
+
+“Can you not trust me?” he exclaimed. “You know I am your friend?”
+
+“I hope so; but I think it is best that you should not come here. If
+you were married, it would be different.”
+
+“I shall not marry,” he replied impatiently. “What then? I am a
+priest of God, and you may trust me fully. If our Church commenced the
+confessional, you might enter it without fear, and I--I would listen
+to the outpourings of your heart. Should you in your grief be afraid
+to utter them?”
+
+She moved away from him, turning her back; but betrayed herself. He
+saw the bright colour mount to her neck and mantle there.
+
+“What nonsense you talk!” she said presently, with a forced laugh.
+“Are you going over to Rome?”
+
+“I might go over to the evil place itself, Ellen, if _you_ were
+there.”
+
+There was no mistaking the words, the tone, in their diabolic
+gentleness, their suavity of supreme and total self-surrender. She
+felt helpless in spite of herself. The man was overmastering her, and
+rapidly encroaching. She felt like a person morally stifled, and with
+a strong effort tried to shake the evil influence away.
+
+“I was right,” she said. “We must not meet.”
+
+He smiled sadly.
+
+“As you please. I will come, or I will go, at your will. You have only
+to say to me, ‘Go and destroy yourself, obliterate yourself for ever
+from my life, blot yourself out from the roll of living beings,’ and I
+shall obey you.”
+
+Her spirit revolted more and more against the steadfast, self-assured
+obliquity of the man. She saw that he was desperate, and that the
+danger grew with his desperation. In every word he spoke, and in his
+whole manner, there was the sombre assurance of something between
+them, of some veiled, but excitable sympathy, which she herself
+utterly ignored. That moment of wild delirium, when he caught her in
+his arms and kissed her, seemed, instead of severing them, to have
+made a link between them. He had been conscious of her indignation, he
+had even professed penitence; but she saw to her dismay that the
+fact of his folly filled him, not with fear, but with courage. So she
+determined to end it once and for ever.
+
+“Let us understand each other,” she said, trembling violently. “How
+dare you talk as if there was any community of feeling between us? How
+dare you presume upon my patience, Mr. Santley? It is wretched; it is
+abominable! When you talk of killing yourself, when you assume that I
+have any serious interest in you, or any right over you, you insult
+me and degrade yourself. We are nothing, and can be nothing to each
+other.”
+
+“I know that,” he replied. “Do you think I am so mad as not to know
+that?”
+
+“Then why do you come here to torture me, and to tempt me?”
+
+The word came from her before she knew it, and her face became
+scarlet; but he uttered no protest, and raised his white hand in
+deprecation.
+
+“Tempt you? God forbid!”
+
+“I did not mean that,” she murmured, in confusion; “but you must know,
+you cannot fail to know, that it is not right for a married woman to
+receive such expressions of sympathy, however spiritual. It is that
+which makes me hate the Catholic Church. The priest promises you his
+office, and too often makes mischief under the guise of religion.”
+
+“Do you accuse me of doing so?” he demanded, in the same sad, calm
+voice.
+
+“No; but you should remember that you have not the custody of my soul,
+and I have no right to influence your actions. Come,” she continued,
+with rather a forced laugh, “talk to me like a true English clergyman.
+Tell me of the old women of the village, and their ailments; ask me
+for a subscription to give to your new soup kitchen; talk to me as
+if Mr. Haldane were listening to us--of your schools, your parish
+troubles--and you shall find me an eager listener!”
+
+“I will talk of anything, Ellen, so long as I may talk to you.”
+
+Again that manner of despairing certainty, of assured and fatal
+sympathy. The man was incorrigible.
+
+She waited impatiently for some minutes, but finding he did not speak
+again, she held out her hand.
+
+“Since you have nothing more to tell me,” she observed lightly, “I
+think I will say good morning. I am going to order the carriage and
+drive to Omberley.”
+
+“When may I come again?”
+
+“When you have anything really parochial to say to me. Please go now.”
+
+Their eyes met, and hers sank beneath his own.
+
+As he crossed towards the door it opened, and Baptisto appeared upon
+the threshold.
+
+“Did you ring, senora?”
+
+At the sight of the Spaniard’s dull impressive face Mrs. Haldane
+started violently, and went a little pale. She had heard nothing of
+his return, and he came like an apparition.
+
+“Baptisto! What are you doing here? I thought----”
+
+She paused in wonder, while the Spaniard inclined his head and bowed
+profoundly.
+
+“I was taken with a vertigo at the station, and the senor permitted me
+to return.”
+
+“Then your master has gone alone?”
+
+“Yes, senora.”
+
+“Very well. Order the carriage at once. I am going out.”
+
+Baptisto bowed and retired, quickly closing the door.
+
+Santley, who had stood listening during the above conversation, now
+prepared to follow, but, glancing at Ellen, saw that she was unusually
+agitated.
+
+“That is a sinister-looking fellow,” he remarked. “I am afraid he has
+frightened you.”
+
+“Indeed, no,” she replied; “though I confess I was startled at his
+unexpected return. Good-bye.”
+
+“Good-bye,” he said, again taking her hand and holding it up a moment
+in his own.
+
+Passing from the drawing-room, he again came face to face with
+Baptisto, who was lurking in the lobby, but who drew aside with a
+respectful bow, to allow the clergyman to pass.
+
+He crossed the hall, descended the stone steps of the portico, and
+walked slowly towards the lodge. As he passed the ruined chapel,
+its shadows seemed to fall upon his spirit and leave it in ominous
+darkness. He shivered slightly, and drew his cloak about him, then
+with his eyes cast down he thoughtfully walked on.
+
+He did not glance back. Had he done so, he would have seen Baptisto
+standing on the steps of the Manor house, watching him with a sinister
+smile.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV. CONJURATION.
+
+|It was a chill day in early autumn, and as Charles Santley passed
+along the dark avenue of the Manor his path was strewn here and there
+with freshly fallen leaves. Dark shadows lay on every side, and the
+heaven above was full of a sullen, cheerless light. It was just
+the day for a modern Faust, in the course of his noonday walk, to
+encounter, in some fancied guise, canine or human, the evil one of old
+superstition.
+
+Be that as it may, Santley knew at last that the hour of his
+temptation was over, and that the evil one was not far away. He
+knew it, by the sullen acquiescence of evil of his own soul; by the
+deliberate and despairing precision with which he had chosen the easy
+and downward path; by the sense of darkness which already obliterated
+the bright moral instincts in his essentially religious mind. He had
+spoken the truth when he said he would follow Ellen Haldane anywhere,
+even to the eternal pit itself. Her beauty possessed him and disturbed
+him with the joy of impure thoughts; and now that he perceived his own
+power to trouble her peace of mind, he rejoiced at the strength of his
+passion with a truly diabolic perversity.
+
+As he came out of the lodge gate he saw, far away over the fields, the
+spire of his own church.
+
+He laughed to himself.
+
+But the man’s faith in spiritual things, so far from being shaken, was
+as strong as ever. His own sense of moral deterioration, of spiritual
+backsliding, only made him believe all the more fervently in the
+heaven from which he had fallen, or might choose to fall. For it is
+surely a mistake to picture, as so many poets have pictured, the evil
+spirit as one ignorant of or insensible to good. Far wiser is the
+theology which describes Satan as the highest of angelic spirits--the
+spirit which, above all others, had beheld and contemplated the
+Godhead, and had then, in sheer revolt and negation, deliberately and
+advisedly decided its own knowledge and rejected its own truthright.
+Santley was, in his basest moods, essentially a godly man--a man
+strangely curious of the beauty of goodness, and capable of infinite
+celestial dreams. If, like many another, he confused the flesh and the
+spirit, he did no more than many sons of Eve have done.
+
+As he walked slowly along he mused, somewhat to this effect--“I
+love this woman. In her heart she loves me. Her superior spiritual
+endowments are mystically alive to those I myself possess. Her
+husband is a clod, an unbeliever, with no spiritual promptings. In
+his sardonic presence, her aspirations are chilled, frozen at the very
+fountain-head; whereas, in mine, all the sweetness and the power
+of her nature are aroused, though with a certain irritation. If I
+persist, she must yield to the slow moral mesmerism of my passion,
+and eventually fall. Is this necessarily evil? Am I of set purpose
+sinning? Is it not possible that even a breach of the moral law
+might, under certain conditions, lead us both to a higher religious
+place--yes, even to a deeper and intenser consciousness of God?”
+
+And again--“What _is_ sin? Surely it is better than moral stagnation,
+which is death. There are certain deflections from duty which, like
+the side stroke of a bird’s wing, may waft us higher. In the arms of
+this woman, I should surely be nearer God than crawling alone on the
+bare path of duty, loving nothing, hoping nothing, becoming nothing.
+What is it that Goethe says of the Eternal Feminine which lead us
+ever upward and onward? Which was the highest, Faust before he loved
+Marguerite, or Faust after he passed out of the shadow of his sin into
+the sphere of imperial and daring passion? I believe in God, I love
+this woman. Out of that belief, and that love, shall I not become a
+living soul?”
+
+Was this the man’s own musing, or rather the very devil whispering
+in his ear? From such fragmentary glimpses of his mind as have
+been given, we can at least guess the extent of his intellectual
+degradation.
+
+As he walked along the country road, his pale countenance became
+seraphic; just so may the face of Lucifer have looked when he plumed
+his wings for deliberate flight from heaven.
+
+He stepped into a roadside farm and had a glass of milk, which the
+good woman of the place handed to him with a sentiment of adoration;
+he looked so gentle, so at peace with all living things. His white
+hand rested for a moment on the head of her little girl, in gentle
+benediction. He had never felt more tenderly disposed to all creation
+than at that moment, when he was prepared to dip a pen into his
+own hearts blood, and sign the little promissory note which
+Mephistopheles carries, always ready, in his pocket. He had hated his
+congregation before; now he loved them exceedingly--and all the world.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI. AT THE OPERA.
+
+|On arriving in London, George Haldane was driven straight to the
+house of an old friend at Chelsea, where he always stayed during
+his visits to the Metropolis. This friend was Lovell Blakiston, as
+eccentric a being in his own way as Haldane himself was in his. He
+had been, since boyhood, in the India Office, where he still put in
+an appearance several hours a day, and whence he still drew a large
+income, with the immediate right to a retiring pension whenever he
+choose to take it. He was a great student, especially of the pagan
+poets and philosophers; and the greater part of his days and nights
+were spent in his-old-fashioned library, opening with folding doors on
+to a quiet lawn, which led in its turn to the very river-side. He
+had two pet aversions--modern progress, in the shape of railroads,
+electricity, geology; all the new business of science and modern
+religion, especially in its connection with Christian theology. He
+was, in short, a pagan pure and simple, fond of old books, old wine,
+old meditations, and old gods. However he might differ with Haldane on
+such subjects’ as the nebular hypothesis, which he hated with all his
+heart, he agreed with him sufficiently on the subject of Christianity.
+Both had a cordial dislike for church ceremonies and church bells.
+
+The two gentlemen had another taste in common. This was the opera,
+which both enjoyed hugely, though Blakiston never ceased to regret
+the disappearance of that old operatic institution, the ballet,
+which, like a rich dessert wine, used to bring the feast of music to
+a delightfully sensuous conclusion. Haldane was too young a man to
+remember such visions of loveliness as Cerito, whom his old friend had
+often gone to see in company with Horne Took.
+
+So it happened that two or three days after his arrival, Haldane
+accompanied his host to the opera house, where Patti was to appear in
+“Traviata.”
+
+Seated comfortably in the stalls, he was glancing quietly round the
+house between the acts, when his attention was attracted to a face in
+one of the private boxes. A pale, Madonna-like, yet girlish face, set
+in golden hair, with soft blue eyes, and an expression so forlorn, so
+wistful, so ill at ease, that it was almost painful to behold.
+
+Haldane started in surprise.
+
+“What is the matter?” said his friend; “Have you recognized anybody?”
+
+“I am not certain,” returned Haldane, raising his opera-glass and
+surveying the face through them. Then, after a long look, he added’ as
+if to himself, “I am almost sure it is the same.”
+
+“Do you mean that young lady in black, seated in the second tier?”
+
+“Yes. Oblige me by looking at her, and tell me what you think of her.”
+ Blakiston raised his opera-glass, and took a long look.
+
+“Well?” asked Haldane.
+
+“She reminds me of one of your detestable pre-Raphaelistic drawings,
+shockheaded and vacuous. She is pretty, I grant you, but she has no
+expression.”
+
+“I should say, on the contrary, a very marked expression of deep
+pain.”
+
+“Tight lacing,” grunted Blakiston. “Your modern women have no shape,
+since Cerito.”
+
+Here Haldane rose from his seat. Looking up again, he had met the
+young lady’s eyes, and had perceived at once that she recognized him.
+
+“I am going to speak to her,” he explained. “She is a neighbour of
+ours, and a friend of my wife.”
+
+He made his way to the second tier, and finding the door of the box
+open, he looked in, and saw the person he sought, seated in company
+with an elderly lady and a young man.
+
+“Miss Dove!” he said, advancing into the box. “Although we have only
+met twice, I thought I could not be mistaken.” Edith (for it was she)
+turned quickly and took his outstretched hand..
+
+“How strange to find you here!” she exclaimed. “Is Mrs. Haldane with
+you?
+
+“No, indeed. I left her to the pious duties of the parish, which she
+is fulfilling daily, I expect, in company with your seraphic friend
+the minister.”
+
+Edith looked at him with strange surprise, but said nothing.
+
+“When did you come to town?” he asked. “I thought you were quite
+a country young lady, and never ventured into the giddy world of
+London.”
+
+“I was not very well,” replied Edith, “and my aunt invited me to stop
+with her a few weeks. This is my aunt, Mrs. Hetherington; and this
+gentleman is my cousin Walter.” Here Edith went somewhat nervously
+through the ceremony of introduction. She added, with a slight flush,
+“My cousin insisted on bringing us here to-night. I did not wish to
+come.”
+
+“Why not?” demanded Haldane, noticing her uneasiness.
+
+“Because I did not think it right; and I have been thinking all the
+evening what the vicar will say when I tell him I have been to such a
+place.”
+
+Here the old lady shook her head ominously, and gave a slight groan.
+
+“Is the place so terrible,” asked Haldane, smiling, “now you have seen
+it?”
+
+“No, it is very pretty; and of course the singing is beautiful. But
+Mr. Santley does not approve of the theatre, and I am sorry I came.”
+
+“Nonsense, Edith,” said young Hetherington, with a laugh. “You know
+you wanted to see the ‘Traviata,’ The fact is,” he continued, turning
+to Haldane, “my mother and my cousin are both terribly old-fashioned.
+My mother here is Scotch, and believes in the kirk, the whole kirk,
+and nothing but the kirk; and as for Edith, she is entirely, as they
+say in Scotland, under the minister’s ‘thoomb.’ I thought they would
+have enjoyed themselves, but they have been doing penance all the
+evening.”
+
+Without paying attention to her cousin’s remarks, Edith was looking
+thoughtfully at Haldane.
+
+“When do you return to Omberley?” she asked.
+
+“I am not sure--in a fortnight, at the latest. I am going on to
+France.”
+
+“And Mrs. Haldane will remain all that time alone?”
+
+“Of course,” he replied. “Oh, she will not miss me. She has her
+household duties, her parish, her garden--to say nothing of her
+clergyman. And you, do _you_ stay long in London?”
+
+“I am not sure; I think not. I am tired of it already.”
+
+Again that weary, wistful look, which sat so strangely on the young,
+almost childish face. She sighed, and gazed sadly around the crowded
+house. A minute later, Haldane took his leave, and rejoined his friend
+in the stalls. Looking up at the end of the next act, he saw that the
+box was empty.
+
+The women had yielded to their consciences, and departed before the
+end of the performance.
+
+That night, when Haldane went home to Chelsea, he found a letter from
+his wife. It was a long letter, but contained no news whatever,
+being chiefly occupied with self-reproaches that the writer had not
+accompanied her husband in his pilgrimage. This struck Haldane as
+rather peculiar, as in former communications Ellen had expressed
+no such dissatisfaction; but he was by nature and of set habit
+unsuspicious, and he set it down to some momentary _ennui_. The letter
+contained no mention whatever of Mr. Santley, but in the postscript,
+where ladies often put the most interesting part of their
+correspondence, there was a reference to the Spanish valet, Baptisto.
+
+“As I told you,” wrote Ellen, “Baptisto seems in excellent health,
+though he is mysterious and unpleasant as usual. He comes and goes
+like a ghost, but if he made you believe that he was ill, he was
+imposing upon you. I do so wish you had taken him with you.”
+
+Haldane folded up the letter with a smile.
+
+“Poor Baptisto!” he thought, “I suppose it is as I suspected, and the
+little widow at the lodge is at the bottom of it all.”
+
+After a few days’ sojourn at Chelsea, during which time he was much
+interested in certain spiritualistic investigations which were
+just then being conducted by the London _savants_, to the manifest
+confusion of the spirits and indignation of true believers, Haldane
+went to Paris, where he read his paper before the French Society
+to which he belonged. There we shall leave him for a little time,
+returning to the company of Miss Dove, with whom we have more
+immediate concern.
+
+Mother and son lived in a pleasant house overlooking Clapham Common,
+a district famous for its religious edification, its young ladies’
+seminaries, and its dissenting chapels. Mrs. Hethering-ton was the
+wealthy widow of a Glasgow merchant, long settled in London, and she
+set her face rigidly against modern thought, ecclesiastical vestments,
+and cooking on the sabbath. Curiously enough, her son Walter, who
+inherited a handsome competence, was a painter, and followed his
+heathen occupation with much talent, and more youthful enthusiasm.
+His landscapes, chiefly of Highland scenes, had been exhibited in the
+Royal Scottish Academy. His mother, whose highest ideas of art were
+founded on a superficial acquaintance with the Scripture pieces of
+Noel Paton, and an occasional contemplation of biblical masterpieces
+in the Doré Gallery, would have preferred to have seen him following
+in his fathers footsteps, and even entering the true kirk as a
+preacher; but his sympathies were pagan, and a gloomy childish
+experience had not fitted him with the requisite enthusiasm for John
+Calvin and the sabbath.
+
+Walter Hetherington was a fine fresh young fellow of three and twenty,
+and belonged to the clever set of Scotch painters, headed by Messrs.
+Pettie, Richardson, and Peter Graham. He was “cannie” painstaking, and
+rather sceptical, and, putting aside his art, which he really loved,
+he felt true enthusiasm for only one thing in the world--his cousin
+Edith, whom he hoped and longed to make his wife.
+
+As a very young girl, Edith had seemed rather attached to him; but of
+late years, during which they saw each other only at long intervals,
+she seemed colder and colder to his advances. He noticed her
+indifference, and set it down somewhat angrily to girlish fanaticism,
+for he had little or no suspicion whatever that another man’s image
+might be filling her thoughts. Once or twice, it is true, when she
+sounded the praises of her Omberley pastor, his zeal, his goodness,
+his beauty of discourse, he asked himself if he could possibly have
+a rival _there_; but knowing something of the relinquent fancies of
+young vestals, he rejected the idea. To tell the truth, he rather
+pitied the Rev. Mr. Santley, whom he had never seen, as a hardheaded,
+dogmatic, elderly creature of the type greatly approved by his
+mother, and abundant even in Clapham. He had no idea of an Adonis in
+a clerical frock coat, with a beautiful profile, white hands, and a
+voice gentle and low--the latter an excellent thing in woman, but a
+dangerous thing in an unmarried preacher of the Word.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII. WALTER HETHERINGTON.
+
+|When the party got home from the opera, it was only half-past ten.
+They sat down to a frugal supper in the dining-room.
+
+“I am sorry you did not wait till the last act,” said the young man,
+after an awkward silence. “Patti’s death scene is magnificent.”
+
+“I’m thinking we heard enough,” his mother replied. “I never cared
+much for play-acting, and I see little sense in screeching about in
+a foreign tongue. I’d rather have half an hour of the Reverend Mr.
+Mactavish’s discourses than a night of fooling like yon.”
+
+“What do _you_ say, Edith? I’m sure the music was very pretty.”
+
+“Yes, it was beautiful; but not knowing much of Italian, I could not
+gather what it was all about.”
+
+“It is an operatic version of a story of the younger Dumas,” explained
+Walter, with an uncomfortable sense of treading on dangerous ground.
+“The story is that of a beautiful woman who has lived an evil life,
+and is reformed through her affection for a young Frenchman. His
+friends think he is degrading himself by offering to marry her, and to
+cure him she pretends to be false and wicked. In the end, she dies
+in his arms, broken-hearted. It is a very touching subject, I think,
+though some people consider it immoral.”
+
+Here the matron broke in with quiet severity.
+
+“I wonder yon woman--Patti, you call her--doesn’t think shame to
+appear in such dresses. One of them was scarcely decent, and I was
+almost ashamed to look at her--the creature!”
+
+“But her singing, mother, her singing; was it not divine?”
+
+“It was meeddling loud; but I’ve heard far finer in the kirk. Edith,
+my bairn, you’re tired, I’m thinking. We’ll just read a chapter, and
+get to bed.”
+
+So the chapter was read, and the ladies retired, while Walter walked
+off to his studio to have a quiet pipe. He was too used to his
+mother’s peculiarities to be much surprised at the failure of the
+evening’s entertainment; but he felt really amazed that Edith had not
+been more impressed.
+
+The next morning, when they met at breakfast, Edith astonished both
+her aunt and cousin by expressing her wish to return to Omberley as
+soon as possible.
+
+“Go away already!” cried the young man. ‘“Why, you’ve hardly been
+here a week, and you’ve seen nothing of town, and we’ve all the
+picture-galleries to visit yet.”
+
+“And you have not heard Mr. Mactavish discoorse,” cried his mother.
+“No, no; you must bide awhile.”
+
+But Edith shook her head, and they saw her mind was made up.
+
+“I can come again at Christmas, but I would rather go now,” she said.
+
+“But why have you changed your mind?” inquired her cousin eagerly.
+
+“I think they want me at home; and there is a great deal of church
+work to be done in the village.”
+
+Walter was not deceived by this excuse, and tried persuasion, but it
+was of no avail. The girl was determined to return home immediately.
+He little knew the real cause of her determination. Haldane’s presence
+in London had filled her, in spite of herself, with jealous alarm.
+Ellen Haldane was alone at the Manor, with no husband’s eyes to
+trouble her; and, despite the clergyman’s oath of fidelity, Edith
+could not trust him.
+
+Yes, she would go home. It was time to put an end to it all, to remind
+Santley of his broken promises, and to claim their fulfilment. If
+he refused to do her justice, she would part from him for ever; not,
+however, without letting the other woman, her rival, know his true
+character.
+
+It was arranged that she should leave by an early train next morning.
+For the greater part of the day she kept her room, engaged in
+preparations for the journey; but towards evening Walter found her
+alone in the drawing-room. The old lady, his mother, who earnestly
+wished him to marry his cousin, had contrived to be out of the way.
+
+“I am so sorry you are going,” the young man said. “We see so little
+of each other now.”
+
+Edith was seated with her back to the window, her face in deep
+shade. She knew by her cousin’s manner that he was more than usually
+agitated, and she dreaded what was coming--what had come, indeed, on
+several occasions before. She did not answer, but almost unconsciously
+heaved a deep sigh.
+
+“Does that mean that you are sorry too?” asked Walter, leaning towards
+her to see her face.
+
+“Of course I am sorry,” she replied, with a certain constraint.
+
+“I wish I could believe that. Somehow or other, Edith, it seems to
+me that you would rather be anywhere than here. Well, you have some
+cause; for the house is dreary enough, and we are all dull people.
+But you and I used to be such friends! More like brother and sister
+than mere cousins. Is that all over? Are we to drift farther and
+farther apart as the years pass on? It seems to me as if it might come
+to that.”
+
+“How absurd you are!” said Edith, trying to force a laugh, but failing
+lamentably. “You know I was always fond of you and--and--of your
+mother.” Walter winced under the sting of the last sentence, so
+unconsciously given.
+
+“I don’t mean that at all,” he exclaimed. “Of course you liked us,
+as relations like each other; but am I never to be more to you than a
+mere cousin? You know I love you, that I have loved you ever since
+we were boy and girl; and once--ah, yes, I thought you cared for me a
+little. Edith, what does it mean? Why are you so changed?”
+
+Edith was more deeply changed than ever her cousin could guess. Had
+he been able to see her face, he would have been wonder-stricken at
+its expression of mingled shame and despair. She tried to reply; but
+before she could do so her voice was choked, and her tears began to
+fall. In a moment he was close beside her, and bending over her, with
+one hand outstretched to clasp her.
+
+“Now, you are crying. Edith, my darling, what is it?”
+
+“Don’t touch me,” she sobbed, shrinking from him. “I can’t bear it.”
+
+“Forgive me, if I have said anything to pain you; and oh, my darling!
+remember it is my love that carries me away. I do love you, Edith. I
+wish to God I could prove to you how much!”
+
+He took her hand in his; but she drew it forcibly from him, and,
+shrinking still further away, entirely losing her self-control, sobbed
+silently.
+
+“Don’t!” she exclaimed. “For pity’s sake, be silent. You do not know
+what you are saying. I am not fit to become your wife.”
+
+He moved a few steps from her, and waited until her wild, hysterical
+sobbing should have ceased. She commanded herself quickly, as it the
+wild outburst which she had not been able to control had terrified
+her. Then she rose, and would have left the room, but the young man
+stopped her.
+
+“Edith,” he said, “surely you did not mean what you said just now,
+that you are not fit to become my wife?”
+
+“Yes,” she replied quickly; “I did mean it.”
+
+She was glad that her face, was turned from him, and that the room
+was in partial darkness. She was glad that she was able to steady her
+voice, and to give a direct reply.
+
+He did not answer; she felt he was waiting for her to speak on.
+
+“Even if two people love each other,” she said, trembling, “or only
+think they do, which is too often the case, they have no right
+to thoughtlessly contract that holy tie. There cannot be perfect
+happiness in this world without perfect spiritual communion. I know--I
+feel sure--that this does not exist between you and me.”
+
+The young man flushed, and his brow contracted somewhat angrily.
+
+“Take time to think it over,” he said quickly; “this is not your own
+heart that is speaking now. The seeds which that man, your clergyman,
+has been sowing in your heart have borne fruit. Religion is changing
+your whole nature. It is alienating you hopelessly from all to whom
+you are so dear; it is making you unjust, cruelly unkind, to yourself,
+but doubly so to others, under the shallow pretence that you are
+serving God!”
+
+She did not interrupt him; but when he ceased, she put out her hand
+and said, quickly but firmly--
+
+“Good night.”
+
+“Good night,” he repeated. “It is so early, surely you are not going
+to-your room already? This is our last night together, remember.”
+
+“I am so tired,” returned the girl, wearily. “I must get a good
+night’s rest, since I am to start early in the morning.”
+
+“And you will not say another word?”
+
+“I don’t know that there is anything more that I can say.”
+
+“You are angry with me, Edith. Before you go, say at least that you
+forgive me.”
+
+“I am not angry; indeed, I am glad you have spoken. I know now I
+should never have come here. I know I must never come again.”
+
+So, without another word, they parted. Edith went up to her room.
+Walter sought his, and there he remained all the evening, sitting in
+the darkness, pondering over the unaccountable change which had taken
+place in the girl.
+
+Yes, she was changed; but was it hopeless, and altogether unexpected?
+Might she not, with gentle care, be freed from this hateful influence
+of the Church? Walter believed that might be so. Already he seemed
+to see light through the cloud, and to trace the secret of this man’s
+influence over her. Edith was imaginative and highly fanatical; he
+had appealed to her imagination. Being a High Church clergyman, he had
+employed two powerful agents--colour and form. He had scattered the
+shrine at which she worshipped with soft and durable perfumes, and had
+set up sacred symbols; and he had said, “Kneel before these; cast
+down all your worldly wishes and earthly affections.” She, being
+intoxicated, as it were, had yielded to the spell. It was part of his
+plan, thought Walter, that she must neither marry nor form any other
+earthly tie; for was it not through her, and such as her, that his
+beloved Church was able to sustain its full prestige? The Church must
+reign supreme in her heart, as it had done in that of many another
+vestal; it was at the altar alone that her gifts of love and devotion
+must be burned. She must be sacrificed, as many others had been before
+her, and the Church would stand.
+
+This was the young man’s true view of the case. He believed it, for
+he had learnt in his home to hate other worldliness; but though he
+fancied he saw the nature of the discord, he could not as yet perceive
+the directest means of cure.
+
+The next morning, when Edith, looking very pale and weary, but still
+very pretty in her simple travelling costume, came down to breakfast,
+she was a little surprised to find Walter already there. His manner
+was kind and considerate, as it had always been, and he made no
+reference whatever to what had passed between them on the previous
+night. They sat and carried on a constrained but polite conversation;
+but both were glad when it was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs.
+Hetherington. The old lady was filled with genuine regret at her
+niece’s sudden departure, and, while presiding at the breakfast-table,
+was so busy laying down plans for her speedy return that she did not
+notice that every morsel on Edith’s plate remained untouched, and
+that, while sipping her tea, her eyes wandered continually towards
+the window, as if anxiously watching for the cab which was to take her
+away. Walter noticed it with pain, and remained discreetly silent.
+
+As soon as the cab arrived, he left the room, ostensibly to
+superintend the removal of Ediths luggage, but in reality to be absent
+at the leave-taking between his mother and his cousin.
+
+He accompanied Edith to the station. It was merely an act of common
+courtesy, to which she could make no possible objection. On the
+way there was very little said on either side. She was silent from
+preoccupation, and he feared to tread on dangerous ground. But when
+they were near their parting, when Edith was comfortably seated in the
+train, and he stood by the open carriage door, he ventured in a covert
+manner to refer to what had passed.
+
+“The house will be brighter in wintertime,” he said, “and we shall have
+more means of amusing you. You will come back at Christmas, Edith?”
+
+She started, dropped his hand, and drew herself from him.
+
+“No, I think not,” she said; “it is always a busy time with us at
+Christmas. There is much to be done in the church.”
+
+This was their good-bye; for before he could say more the guard
+noisily closed the carriage doors, and whistled shrilly. Mechanically
+Walter took off his hat, and stood sadly watching the train as it
+moved away.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII. CHURCH BELLS--AND A DISCORD.
+
+|Edith was glad that the next day was Sunday. She rose early, dressed
+hurriedly, and went for a walk in the fresh morning air. She felt
+instinctively that she had a battle to fight, and that all her
+resources must be brought into play to gain her the victory. If her
+influence over the man was to continue, she knew there was one way by
+which she could regain it. With such pale cheeks and lacklustre eyes
+as she had brought with her from London, where, she asked, would her
+chances be against Ellen Haldane’s fresh country charms? She must
+banish all painful thoughts for the present, and try to win back the
+roses which he had caused to fade.
+
+She walked for above an hour; and when she returned home, she went
+straight into the garden to gather a little bouquet of flowers. Then
+she went up to her room to dress for church. When she came down to
+breakfast, she wore her prettiest costume, and the bunch of flowers
+was fastened at her throat.
+
+Her aunt had a headache, she said, and could not go to church. Edith
+was not sorry; indeed, when the time came for her to set out, she was
+glad she was alone.
+
+She arrived at the church rather earlier than usual, nevertheless she
+walked straight in, and no sooner had she crossed the threshold than
+she obeyed a sudden impulse which seized her, and determined for that
+day at least not to occupy her usual seat. She selected one which was
+some distance from the pulpit, but from which she could command an
+excellent view of the pew belonging to Foxglove Manor.
+
+The congregation gathered, but the Haldane’s pew was empty. Edith
+watched it with feverish impatience. Presently, just as the tolling
+bell was about to cease, she saw Mrs. Haldane enter and take her seat.
+
+Two minutes later, Mr. Santley, clothed in his white, priestly robes,
+ascended the steps of the reading-desk, and bent his beautiful head
+in prayer. As he rose to his feet, Edith, who had been watching him
+in extreme fascination, saw his gaze wandering round the church, and
+finally fix upon the face of the mistress of Foxglove Manor. She
+saw, or thought she saw, the lady’s eyelids quiver and finally droop
+beneath that glance; while the clergyman arose, like a sick man
+suddenly restored to health, and began to read the lessons for the
+day.
+
+How that morning passed Edith scarcely knew. She remained like one in
+a dream, mechanically going though the religious forms, but feeling as
+if her heart’s blood was slowly ebbing away. Of one thing only she was
+conscious--that of all those upturned faces before him the clergyman
+seemed to see but one, but that from this one face seemed to draw his
+inspiration, as the earth draws life and light from the shining rays
+of the sun.
+
+At length the service was over, the congregation dispersed, and Edith
+found herself walking up and down the quiet lanes alone, panting for
+air, feeling sick at heart, and shivering through and through, though
+she stood in the warm rays of sunlight. Go home she could not. She
+must see Mr. Santley before she could face another human soul.
+
+She turned, intending to go to the Vicarage, but when she was yet
+within some distance of the house, she saw coming towards her the very
+man she sought.
+
+She paused, not knowing whether to feel glad or sorry. It was
+certainly better than having to go to the Vicarage, yet now that the
+meeting was so near, she shrank from it. She made a desperate effort
+to compose herself, and paused, waiting for him. The clergyman was
+evidently lost in deep thought, his head was bent, his eyes were fixed
+on the ground, and he was quite close to Edith before he saw her.
+
+When their eyes met he paused, almost involuntarily, a momentary
+flush of mingled annoyance and surprise passed over his face, then he
+recovered himself, walked forward, and quietly extended his hand.
+
+“Miss Dove!” he said, glancing nervously round. “I had no idea you
+were at home. How do you do?”
+
+It had been agreed between them, long before, that so long as their
+secret remained a secret, no warmer greeting than this must be
+exchanged between them in public. When the proposition had been made,
+Edith had quietly assented. What was it to her that Santley should bow
+his head with a politeness even more frigid than he bestowed upon any
+one of his flock. Had she not seen the burning light of love in his
+half-lowered eyes? and had she not known that a few hours later she
+would feel his caressing arms about her, and hear his rich, mellow
+voice whispering tenderly in her ear?
+
+But now all was changed. The frigid bow which had formerly been the
+prologue, had rapidly developed into the play. There were no stolen
+meetings now; no consoling whisperings. The clergyman had latterly
+become alive to the risk of such indulgences, and had gradually
+allowed them to cease; and Edith, receiving as her portion the cold
+bow and cold handshake that every eye might have seen, had watched the
+love light gradually fade from her hero’s eyes.
+
+But she had never seen him so cold as to-day. When their eyes had met,
+she had noticed the look of positive annoyance which had passed across
+his face. It had soon fled, but when he spoke and extended his hand,
+his face had assumed a look of cold severity.
+
+Edith did not speak; the painful beating of her heart almost stifled
+her, and her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. She extended her
+hand; the cold, listless touch of his fingers throbbed through her
+like ice. The clergyman saw her trouble, and again that look of
+impatient annoyance passed across his face then he raised his brows in
+calm surprise.
+
+“What is the matter?” he asked quickly. “Has some domestic trouble
+caused your sudden return home?”
+
+She withdrew her hand from his cold, lax fingers, and answered, “No.”
+
+Then she turned and walked along in silence by his side.
+
+The good man was annoyed, seriously annoyed. First at her sudden
+appearance in the village, when he believed she was safely bestowed in
+London for several weeks to come; next at the _rôle_ she thought
+fit to assume. He hated scenes at any time; just now he particularly
+wished to avoid one. So he walked on in silence, until he could
+command his voice to speak quietly; then he said, in the most careless
+manner possible--
+
+“_When_ did you return home?”
+
+“Last night. I attended church this morning.”
+
+She looked at him quickly, to see what effect her words produced.
+Apparently they produced none. The clergymans face remained as coldly
+impassive as before; he raised his brows slightly as he replied.
+
+“Indeed! I did not see you there.” Then, after a pause, he added,
+“Your return was very sudden, was it not? I thought you intended
+staying away for some time.”
+
+“I changed my mind. I thought you would have been glad to have me back
+again.”
+
+Then, swept on by a wild impulse, which she could not possibly
+restrain, she added slowly, but tremulously--
+
+“Charles, are you _sorry_ I have come?”
+
+The clergyman started, flushed, then quickly recovered himself, as he
+added--
+
+“Sorry, my dear Edith? What a question! Why of course I am not sorry.”
+
+“Then, why not say that you are glad? Why not let me know it? Don’t you
+see you are breaking my heart?”
+
+Santley paused, and looked at her. He did not flush this time,
+his face grew white as marble, his eyes quite steel-like in their
+coldness. He had dreaded a scene, but this was so very much worse than
+he had expected; for by this time Edith had lost all self-control, and
+was sobbing violently. His face hardened terribly. He must put an end
+once and for ever to such unpleasant encounters.
+
+“Edith, have you lost your senses?” he said; and the bitterness of his
+tone was like putting a knife into the girl’s heart. “If you wish to
+perform in such scenes as this, you could surely find some other time
+and place than the public road and the broad daylight. If you have
+anything to say to me, you must come to me again in private. At
+present I have no more time which I can place at your service. I have
+business with Mrs. Haldane, who is waiting for me at the Vicarage; and
+my duties at the church will soon begin again.”
+
+He raised his hat, and would have moved away, but Edith laid her hand
+upon his arm and forcibly detained him.
+
+“Stop!” she cried. “One word! You shall not go. I must speak.”
+
+He turned upon her almost angrily; he attempted, but in vain, to shake
+off her detaining hand.
+
+“Tell me,” she cried; “why are you going to meet Mrs. Haldane?” Then,
+before he could recover from his astonishment sufficiently to speak,
+she added, “You need not tell me, for I _know_. It is this woman who
+has come between you and me. Oh, do you think I don’t know that since
+she came to the village you have been a changed man? What did I come
+home for? Because I knew it was not right that you and she should be
+in the village _alone_.”
+
+This time the clergyman succeeded in shaking off her hand. The face
+which he turned towards hers was almost livid in its pallor.
+
+“You forget yourself,” he said, with a sternness which was even harder
+to bear than bitter reproach. “Well, I suppose you think you have a
+right to insult me; but permit me to remind you that your right does
+not extend to religious affairs, or to a lady who is the most esteemed
+member of my congregation.”
+
+“I have not insulted you, Charles; I am only warning you.”
+
+“You are very kind,” he interposed, with a sneer, “but I am, in no
+greater need of your warning than is the lady. Until you can learn how
+to control your own words and actions, it would be better for _you_
+that we should not meet.” Again he moved, as if about to leave her;
+again she put forth her hand, and held him fast. The scene had become
+more violent than she had intended. It was now too late to pause.
+
+“One more word,” she sobbed. “Promise me that you will not see her,
+then I will promise never to mention this subject again.”
+
+“Promise you what? To discontinue all communications with Mrs.
+Haldane?”
+
+“Yes, yes; that is all. It is not much to ask you.”
+
+“It is much more than you have any right to ask. You have chosen to
+connect my name dishonourably with a lady whom I esteem. Enough!
+I cannot control your actions, but I mean to regulate my own. Good
+morning, Edith. Since you have nothing more important to say to me, I
+suppose I am at liberty to go?”
+
+He raised his hat and walked away, pausing a minute later to raise
+it again, and to address some pleasant remark to a member of his
+congregation, who happened at that moment to be coming along the
+road. It was the sight of this stranger which prevented Edith from
+following, which made her turn and walk with rapid steps towards her
+home. She felt cold and sick and heart-broken, and she shrank from the
+sight of any human face.
+
+When she reached her home, she found her aunt, who had been surprised
+at her protracted absence, gazing uneasily up and down the road. The
+sight of the girl’s pale, tear-stained face alarmed her, but Edith
+silenced her inquiries by declaring that she had not been very well.
+
+“It was foolish of me, but I could not help crying at the service,”
+ she said. “Dear aunt, do not be anxious. I am better now, and only
+want rest.”
+
+“Shall I send you up some dinner, darling?”
+
+“No; nothing. I want to be alone--quite alone.”
+
+So, with a weary, listless look upon her, the girl went up to her
+room, and, having locked the door, she threw herself upon the bed, and
+cried as if her heart were broken.
+
+Meanwhile Mr. Santley went on his way, almost as much disturbed as
+Edith herself. He was angry, terribly angry; for if scenes similar
+to the one through which he had passed were allowed to continue, he
+anticipated a storm of troubles in the future. But how to avoid them?
+What would be the best and safest course to adopt? The good man was
+terribly perplexed. To openly defy the girl might cause her, in her
+bitterness and pain, to expose herself and him; which would certainly
+be awkward, since he wished, above all things, to stand well with
+his congregation. And yet to adopt any other course, he must at
+least pretend to subscribe to her conditions. He must be content to
+renounce, or pretend to renounce, his intimacy with Mrs. Haldane. The
+man of God was justly indignant.
+
+Such a course, he knew, must not be thought of, and he resolved with
+pious determination to continue Ellen Haldane’s conversion, for which
+he was so zealous and to leave matters between himself and Edith
+exactly as they were.
+
+He knew the girl’s disposition. She would soon acknowledge her folly,
+and make the first advances towards reconciliation. Well, then he
+would be inclined to meet her half-way, but she must be the first to
+move. If, on the other hand, she chose to take the unpleasant course
+of exposing him, why, he would have but one alternative: he would
+simply deny her statements, and who would believe her? It would be an
+unpleasant phase of experience to have to pass through, and it would
+compel him to sacrifice a fellow-creature.
+
+Nevertheless, he acknowledged to himself, with the air of a Christian
+martyr, that if she pushed him to extremities it would be necessary.
+
+After all, he hoped that Edith, shut up with her own grief, in the
+solitude of her own room, would soon be brought to see the error of
+her ways, and would make that first advance towards reconciliation
+which was necessary for the peace of mind of both.
+
+But, whatever might happen in the future, Edith had succeeded for that
+day at least in completely destroying the good mans peace of mind. His
+agitation was so great that he was compelled to walk about the quiet
+lanes until his tranquillity was somewhat restored. Then he returned
+to the Vicarage, where Mrs. Haldane was comfortably seated with
+his sister, and enjoyed her society until the hour of his labours
+returned.
+
+When he entered the church that afternoon, all the congregation
+thought he was looking more seraphic than ever. Many a young heart
+fluttered with holiness, and many an eyelid drooped reverently, before
+the calm serenity of his gaze. As he stood facing his people, he cast
+his eyes around the church. Edith was not there.
+
+He turned the leaves of his gold-clasped volume, and as his rich voice
+filled the church, and the congregation rose, he gazed once more about
+him. This time his cheek flushed slightly, and a soft sigh of relief
+and happiness escaped his parted lips. Mrs. Haldane was again in her
+place, calmly joining in the prayers.
+
+That afternoon the clergyman preached like one inspired; all were
+impressed but none were cognizant of the cause. Though the clergyman’s
+eyes wandered continually around the church, he saw only one face, was
+conscious only of one presence. So engrossed was he, and so wrapped up
+in his fervour of admiration, that he did not notice what was going on
+around him. Had he done so, he would have seen that there was another
+member of the congregation besides Mrs. Haldane who attracted a
+certain amount of interest. Seated in the gallery, calmly joining in
+the service and watching the minister, was the foreign “gentleman with
+the eyes.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX. HE IS BUT A LANDSCAPE PAINTER
+
+|After Edith’s departure from London, Walter Hetherington thought
+long and deeply over the mysterious change in his cousin. The more
+he thought, the more uneasy he grew. Of one thing he felt tolerably
+sure--that the girl had got into the hands of, a religious fanatic,
+who either consciously or unconsciously was completely destroying
+himself, his happiness--in this world at least. She was fairly
+possessed by the fever of other worldliness, he said to himself, and
+if left alone she would, like many others before her, probably end her
+days in a mad house.
+
+Having arrived at this enlightened conclusion, which was chiefly based
+on what Edith had herself told him, Walter determined that she should
+not be left alone. What would be more rational, he said to himself,
+than that he should pack up his sketching paraphernalia and pay a
+short visit to the picturesque little village where his aunt and
+cousin lived? Surely Edith would be glad to see him, and while he
+remained to watch over her, his time would not be entirely lost.
+
+When he told his mother of his determination to revisit the
+country, the old lady was unfeignedly glad. She suspected, from the
+unaccountable sudden departure of the girl, that the two young people
+had had a quarrel, and she was glad to see her son was magnanimous
+enough to make the first advances towards reconciliation. So she
+helped him to put a few things together, and on the spur of the moment
+he started off.
+
+He had written neither to his cousin nor aunt to tell them of his
+coming.
+
+--He had intended sending a telegram from the station, but at the
+last moment he changed his mind, and as he sat in the train which was
+rapidly whirling him onward, he began to ask himself whether it would
+be judicious of him to go to his aunt’s house at all. To be sure, he
+had always made it his head-quarters; but now things were changed.
+Edith had left his mother’s house to avoid _him_; would it be fair to
+either of them that he should become his aunt’s guest? By living in
+the house he would force from her a communication which might be very
+grudgingly given, and at the same time his lips must be inevitably
+sealed. He finally decided that, during the visit at least, it would
+be better for every one that he should stay at the inn.
+
+So on arriving at the station he drove to the inn, secured at a cheap
+price a couple of cosy rooms, and determined to delay calling upon his
+relations until the following day.
+
+The next day was fine, a fit day for an artist to lounge, dream,
+perhaps work. Walter hung about the inn till midday; then he took his
+sketch-book under his arm, and strolled forth in the direction of his
+aunt’s cottage. When he reached the door, and was about to knock, it
+was suddenly opened by Edith, dressed in walking costume.
+
+On coming thus unexpectedly face to face with her cousin, she looked
+manifestly angry.
+
+“Walter, you here?” she said coldly; then she added quickly, “Is
+anything the matter at home?”
+
+“Nothing whatever,” said Walter, quietly giving his hand, and taking
+no notice whatever of the irritation so plainly visible on her face.
+“I got tired of London, that was all, and thought a few days in the
+country might do me good. I am not going to bore _you_. I have brought
+my working tools down with me, and mean to take some sketches back.”
+
+“But where is your luggage?”
+
+“Down at the inn.”
+
+“At the inn?”
+
+“Yes; I had it taken direct there last night. I was fortunate enough,
+too, to secure rooms--a capital little parlour fit for a studio, and
+a bedroom leading out of it. I shall be able to do the host, and
+entertain you, if you’ll come.”
+
+“You are going to stay at the inn?” said Edith. “You always stayed
+with _us_ before!”
+
+“Of course I did; but I am not going to be so inconsiderate as to
+plant myself upon you _now_.”
+
+He laid the slightest possible stress upon the “now,” and Edith
+understood; nevertheless, she deemed it prudent to affect ignorance
+and read a different meaning in his words. She murmured something
+about being very much occupied, and having little time to attend to
+visitors; then led the way across the hall to their sitting-room, and
+brought him into the presence of his aunt.
+
+Mrs. Russell welcomed him cordially, but when she heard of his
+domestic arrangements, her face went very blank indeed. She used every
+argument in her power to persuade the young man to change his mind,
+and to have his luggage brought up to the cottage. Walter, eager to
+accept her kindness, was listening for one word from Edith. It never
+came, and he expressed his intention to remain at the inn.
+
+But, although he abided by his former decision and remained _en
+garçon_ at the inn, a very great part of his time was spent at the
+cottage. The old lady, anxious to atone for the inhospitable behaviour
+of her niece, altered all her household arrangements to suit the
+erratic habits of the young painter. The heavy midday meal was
+replaced by a light luncheon; while for the light supper at six was
+substituted a substantial dinner, to which Walter was always bidden.
+On the afternoon of that day, when the young man had first made his
+appearance at the cottage, a rather unpleasant interview had taken
+place between the aunt and niece, almost the first which had come to
+ruffle the peaceful course of their evenly flowing lines. The old
+lady had been indignant at the coolness of Edith’s reception, and had
+accused the girl of inhospitality and ingratitude; while Edith had
+coolly given it as her opinion that the young man was much better
+located elsewhere.
+
+“It is a tax to have a visitor always in the house, aunt,” said Edith,
+quietly; “and--and I haven’t the strength to bear it, I think.”
+
+Mrs. Russell looked up, and was surprised to find that the girl, after
+bearing her reproaches so mildly, was now actually crying. She
+noted again, too, with a start of shocked surprise how sadly she had
+changed. The fresh, bright beauty which had once charmed every eye
+had gone, leaving scarcely a trace behind it, and the face was pale,
+careworn, and sad. She got up and kissed her, and that silent caress
+did more than a dozen reproaches. It made Edith hurriedly leave the
+room, to cast herself, crying bitterly, upon the bed, while Mrs.
+Russell sat down and wrote a note to Walter.
+
+“You shall have your own way about staying at the inn,” she wrote,
+“and you shall also have every possible hour of the day that you can
+make use of for your work; but surely you can spare your evenings for
+us. I have arranged to dine every day at six, and I beg of you, for
+Edith’s sake, to make one of the party. Dear Edith is far from well,
+and sadly changing. She sees so few people, and the house is dull.
+Dear Walter, come often, for her sake if not for mine.”
+
+Thus it happened that every night, when the little dining-room was
+laid out for dinner, Walter made his appearance at the cottage door,
+and that during those evening hours the family party was increased to
+three. Sometimes they left the dinner-table to lounge in the pretty
+little drawing-room, where Walter was permitted to smoke his cigar,
+while the old lady worked at wool-work, and Edith played to them in
+the slowly gathering darkness. Sometimes they strolled out on to the
+lawn, and had the tea brought out, and laughed and chatted while they
+watched the stars appear one by one in the heavens. Was it fancy, or
+since these social evenings commenced was Edith really changed’ for
+the better? Walter fancied that her eye was brighter, her cheek less
+pale, and that her manner towards himself was sometimes very tender,
+as if she wished in a measure to atone for her past coldness. This
+was particularly noticeable one night when the two sat alone in the
+drawing-room.
+
+Mrs. Russell, murmuring something about household affairs, had left
+them together. Walter was reclining in an armchair, smoking his cigar
+and watching his cousin, who was busily engaged embroidering crosses
+upon a handsome altar-cloth, intended for the decoration of the
+church.
+
+“These have been pleasant evenings,” he said--“pleasant for me, that
+is. I shall be sorry enough when they come to an end.”
+
+Edith looked up and smiled sadly.
+
+“If we always had pleasure it would become a pain,” she said. “Though
+we rebel against pain and suffering, it is, after all, a very great
+boon to the world.”
+
+“Humph! Perhaps so, if it were better distributed. What about the poor
+creatures whose portion is only pain?--who, to put it vulgarly, get
+all the kicks, and none of the halfpence?”
+
+“In this world, you should have said, Walter. Let us hope their
+measure of happiness will be greater in the world that is to come.”
+
+Walter was silent. The conversation had taken precisely the turn which
+he would have avoided, and he was wondering how to bring it to the
+subject which was for ever uppermost in his mind. For a time he
+remained in a brown study. Edith stitched on. Then he rose, took a few
+turns about the room, and stopped near to her chair.
+
+“Edith,” he said quietly, “do you know why I came down here?”
+
+Something in his tone rather than his words made her start and flush
+painfully. She did not raise her eyes or cease her work. Before she
+could answer, he had taken her hand.
+
+“I came for _you_, Edith,” he continued passionately. “Listen to me,
+my darling. Do not answer hastily, if you cannot give me a decided
+answer. At least let me hope.”
+
+Decidedly yet tremblingly the girl put his hands from her, and half
+rose from her seat. His words had frozen her to ice again.
+
+“Why _did_ you come here?” she said. “Do you call it manly or kind to
+persecute me? I tell you I shall never marry.”
+
+As she spoke her eye fell upon the altar-cloth, which she held in her
+hand: Walter saw the look, and as he was walking back to the inn that
+night it recurred to his mind again. The altar-cloth! There was the
+symbol of the thing which had come between them--which was blighting
+his life and hers. Edith was changing; but she was not utterly
+changed. He resolved to do the only thing which now remained to be
+done. He determined to appeal to her spiritual adviser.
+
+All night his mind was filled with this idea; it troubled his sleeping
+as well as his waking moments, and when he rose in the morning it
+was the one thing which possessed him. Now, he had never seen
+the clergyman, but he had pictured him as a middle-aged,
+benevolent-looking man, perhaps with spectacles; a gentle fanatic
+in religion, willing, through the very bigotry of his nature, to
+sacrifice everything for the good of the Church, but still, perhaps,
+amiable. He might be open to reason, and an appeal made directly to
+him might be the means of putting an end to all the trouble.
+
+Breakfast over, the young man issued from the inn, and strolled
+deliberately through the village in the direction of the Vicarage.
+It was early in the day to make a call, so he walked very slowly,
+meditating as he went on the nature of his errand; and the course he
+was about to take, after what had passed between him and his cousin,
+was, perhaps, a little unwarrantable, and Edith might be inclined to
+resent it if she knew. But then, he reflected, she need never know.
+Mr. Santley would surely grant him the favour of keeping the matter
+a secret; and afterwards, when the shadow of the Church had ceased to
+darken her life, and she was happy with him in her married home, she
+would be glad to hear that it was he who had saved her.
+
+These were the kind of rose-coloured visions which filled his brain as
+he walked on towards the Vicarage, and by the time he had reached the
+hall door and pulled the bell, he had even converted Mr. Santley into
+the good fairy of the tale, or rather a sort of Father Christmas, in
+a surplice, smiling benevolently upon them and pairing their hands. A
+trim little servant came to the door, and, in answer to his inquiries,
+informed him that Mr. Santley was not at home. He was expected in
+immediately, however, if the gentleman would like to wait.. Yes;
+Walter would wait. So he followed the little maid across the hall,
+into a somewhat chilly but sufficiently gorgeous room, which was
+reserved solely for the comfort and convenience of Mr. Santley’s
+guests. As Walter sank down into an easy-chair, the arms of which
+seemed to enfold him in a close embrace, and looked about the room, he
+acknowledged that Mr. Santley at least did not give all his substance
+to the poor. Here at least there was no appearance of penury, or of
+sackcloth and ashes; all was comfortable and luxurious in the extreme.
+He walked about the room; examined the books upon the tables, which
+were all works of education, elegantly bound; noticed the engravings
+on the walls--one or two of Raphael’s Madonnas (coloured copies), and
+an old engraving after Andrea del Sarto. Mr. Santley did not come. He
+rang the bell, gave the little maid his card, told her he would call
+again, and left the Vicarage.
+
+This time he walked in the direction of the schoolhouse. He had his
+sketchbook under his arm, and in it a half-finished sketch of the
+schoolmistress’s picturesque home. He would fill up his spare time by
+adding a few touches to the sketch before he returned to the Vicarage.
+
+In this matter fortune favoured him. It being Saturday afternoon,
+there was no school, and the schoolmistress was leaning in a listless
+attitude upon the low trellised gate. She welcomed the young painter
+with a nod and a bright smile, and readily assented to his proposition
+that she should stand for the figure in the picture. He took out his
+book and set to work.
+
+Dora meanwhile chatted and laughed to make the time pass pleasantly,
+and sometimes, in answer to an invitation from him, she would run
+round the easel to take a peep at the figure of herself, which was
+gradually growing under his hand. At last their pleasant interview
+was brought to an end. Walter remembered the appointment which
+this chattering lady had made him forget. He put up his sketching
+materials, and prepared to take his leave. Then Dora stopped him.
+
+“Surely, Mr. Hetherington, you will do me one favour,” she said: “you
+will honour me by stepping for a moment into the cottage which you
+have transferred so beautifully to paper. I have some cream and milk,
+some fresh strawberries from our garden, if that is any inducement to
+you.”
+
+The invitation was tempting. Nevertheless, Walter, while wishing to
+accept, was about to refuse, pleading an engagement at the Vicarage
+when another voice broke in--
+
+“Good day, Miss Greatheart!” it said.
+
+The schoolmistress smiled, made a prim curtsey, and answered, “Good
+day, sir!” Then she waited to see if her visitor had anything more to
+say.
+
+The new arrival was a man, and Walter, who was looking at him, thought
+he was the handsomest man he had ever seen in his life. He was dressed
+as a clergyman, but the cut of his garments-was elegant and eminently
+becoming. As his eye fell upon Walter he raised his hat, and
+discovered a head beautifully shaped and slightly thinning at the
+temples. Walter remained fascinated, staring at the man, who moved
+here and there with easy grace, and whose face grew singularly
+handsome with every varying expression which flitted across it.
+
+He had not much to say to the schoolmistress; and as he moved away
+his hat was again swept off to Walter, and the clergyman’s eyes rested
+upon him for a moment with a look one might love to paint in the eyes
+of a saint.
+
+Walter turned to Miss Greatheart.
+
+“A handsome fellow,” he said, “--a very handsome fellow; and a
+clergyman, I see, by his dress. Who is he? One of Mr. Santley’s
+curates, I suppose?”
+
+The schoolmistress stared at him for a moment in amazement.
+
+“One of Mr. Santley’s curates!” she said. “Why, my dear sir, that is
+our vicar himself!”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX. IN THE GLOAMING.
+
+|It was now Walters turn to look amazed.
+
+“That Mr. Santley!” he said. “Why, he is quite a young man!”
+
+“Of course he is--and handsome as good, and good as handsome. But
+won’t you come in, Mr. Hetherington, and have some refreshment? It is
+two hours quite since you opened out your sketch-book at the gate!”
+
+This time Walter accepted her invitation, and followed her into the
+quaint little parlour, where most of her days were spent. The little
+maid who attended to the house had got a holiday with the children,
+and Dora was left to attend to herself that day. Walter was glad of
+it, since he was left free to sit by the window and follow the train
+of his thoughts, while Dora busied herself spreading the snowy cloth
+upon the table, and setting forth her simple fare. When it was ready,
+he came to the table and ate some strawberries and drank some milk,
+thinking all the while of Mr. Santley. Presently he spoke of him.
+
+“You have known Mr. Santley some time, Miss Greatheart?” he said.
+
+“I was schoolmistress here when he came.”
+
+“He is a very good man, you said?”
+
+“Yes, indeed. But it stands to reason that a man with Mr. Santley’s
+gifts must be very good indeed not to get spoiled. In justice to at
+least half of his congregation, he ought to marry.”
+
+“Why, pray?”
+
+“Why? If he had arrived here with a wife, many a young girl in the
+village would have been saved a severe heartache. He is a prize in the
+matrimonial lottery well worth striving for. He is idolized by every
+female in the village. Now, it is certain he cannot marry them all,
+and on the day when the happy one is chosen, fancy the hearts that
+will break!”
+
+“Yours amongst the number?”
+
+“No, sir; I am happy to say I am free. But I take no credit to myself
+on that account. If I had been idle like some of the young ladies
+here, there might have been another victim added to the list; but I
+have so much to do in the school, I have no time to think about the
+vicar,” she added. “Have you heard him preach, Mr. Hetherington?”
+
+“No, not yet.”
+
+“Ah, you must go to the church tomorrow. He speaks magnificently, and
+looks a picture in his robes; besides, his sister, Miss Santley, told
+me he will wear for the first time to-morrow a new surplice and a
+magnificent embroidered band, which has been worked for him by Miss
+Dove!”
+
+At the mention of his cousin’s name Walter felt his face flush and
+his heart leap; but he made no direct reply. He went on eating his
+strawberries, and turned his face to the open window, as he said--
+
+“What have you made for him, Miss Greatheart?”
+
+“I? Oh, nothing! He has so many beautiful presents from the young
+ladies in the village that he has no need of them from me, even if I
+had the time to make them, which I have not; all day I am teaching in
+the school, and all the evening I am busy preparing lessons for the
+following day.”
+
+“Have you always lived here?”
+
+“Not always. My mother was a prison matron at Preston, and we
+lived together until she died, several years ago; then, through the
+influence of some friends, I got this place, and have lived here ever
+since!”
+
+“Working and striving,” added Walter; “finding pleasure in things
+which to some would mean only trouble and irritation. During the
+holidays do you ever come to London, Miss Greatheart?”
+
+“No; I generally remain here.”
+
+“From choice?”
+
+“Not at all. I should like a change; but then, to go alone to a city
+where you have no friends, and to parade crowded streets alone, is a
+holiday which I should not enjoy.”
+
+Walter rose to go.
+
+“You will come back and finish the sketch on Monday, perhaps?” said
+Dora.
+
+“I shall be glad to; I should like, above all, to finish the figure
+leaning on the gate.”
+
+“Then you must come in the evening. I promise to give you an hour
+after school hours.”
+
+Then Walter shook hands with her and left, taking the way to the inn
+instead of to the Vicarage. He would make no appeal to the clergyman.
+The sight of Mr. Santley, so different to the benevolent, elderly
+gentleman of his imagination, had decided him on that point; it had
+also brought with it other trouble, for it threw an entirely new light
+on Edith’s religious fervour.
+
+Was it, then, the man or the church, infatuation or fanaticism? He
+asked himself the question for the first time. Was Edith among the
+mass of simple girls who were breaking their hearts for his sake?
+Probably. It remained now for him to watch her, and ascertain the
+truth.
+
+He went up to the cottage that evening, and regarded Edith with quite
+a new light in his eyes. She also seemed changed. Her manner was
+restless and ill at ease; her cheek was flushed. All through the
+dinner she scarcely touched any food, but glanced furtively at her
+aunt and cousin.
+
+When the dinner was over, they all retired to the drawing-room as
+usual.
+
+Here Ediths restlessness asserted itself more strongly. Instead of
+sitting quietly to her work, as was her usual custom, she flitted
+restlessly about the room. Presently she declared that she had a
+terrible headache, and wished her cousin “good night.”
+
+“I have been trying to bear it,” she said, “but it gets worse instead
+of better. You will excuse me for to-night, Walter, will you not?”
+
+As he took her hand and held it for a moment in his, he felt that it
+was trembling and very hot. He scarcely believed in the headache,
+but he deemed silence the most prudent course; so he wished her “good
+night” without more ado.
+
+Her aunt rose to go with her to her room, but permission to do so was
+firmly refused.
+
+“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.
+
+“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.
+
+“Is it you, Edith? Quick! Is it you?”
+
+His quick ear had caught the rustle of her dress on the grass. Even as
+the words left his lips came the eager answer.
+
+“Yes, Charles; I have come!” And the girl, forgetting all their
+quarrels, leapt with a glad cry into his arms.
+
+For a time no words were spoken. After that one cry of joy, Edith
+had laid her head upon his shoulder and sobbed as if her heart would
+break. At this manifestation of hysteria, Santley was not altogether
+pleased; but he could say nothing, so he clasped his arms firmly about
+her, and tried to soothe her sorrow. When at last Edith lifted her
+head from his shoulder he kissed her lips, and whispered to her so
+gently that the girl’s heart beat as gladly as it had done the first
+day that words like these had been spoken.
+
+“There, there,” said the good man, kissing her again, and patting her
+head like that of a spoilt child. “You are better now, my darling; and
+remember you must not quarrel with me again. You were breaking your
+little heart for nothing at all.”
+
+Part of the girls emotion had communicated itself to him; and for
+the time being, while he stood there holding her to him, feeling
+her breath upon her cheek, her clinging arms about his neck, he felt
+almost as passionately disposed as he had done the first day that
+he told her of his love. As for Edith, a serene happiness and
+peace seemed to enter into her soul. They stood thus for some time,
+exchanging whispered words and fond embraces; then the clergyman told
+her she had better go. A spot or two of rain had fallen, and the sky
+was clouding over as if for a storm.
+
+“Will you play the organ to-morrow, Edith?” he asked, as they moved
+away together.
+
+“Yes, if you wish it.”
+
+“I do wish it, Edith; for when you are playing, it seems as if you
+were helping me with my work.”
+
+Sweet words! She said nothing, but the hand which lay in his pressed
+his fondly, and he knew that she was pleased.
+
+“And will you come to the Vicarage to-morrow afternoon, and have tea
+with us? I shall be so glad if you will!”
+
+He did not add that his sister, wondering all the week at Edith’s
+non-appearance, had threatened repeatedly to call at the cottage, when
+she would doubtless have elicited something of the truth.
+
+“No, I cannot come!” she said; “my cousin, Walter Hetherington, is
+staying in the village, and so long as he remains here he is to spend
+the evenings with us. As to-morrow is Sunday, and no work can be done,
+my aunt has invited him up for the day.”
+
+Santley was relieved, very much relieved indeed. He could now give his
+sister a tangible reason for Edith’s absence from the Vicarage, while
+he himself would be perfectly free to spend the afternoon with Mrs.
+Haldane. He tried, to suppress the delight which he could not help
+feeling, and said quietly, “Let us hope the young man will make a
+speedy departure, if he means to monopolize you so much. But that
+reminds me, Edith, a young man, a Mr. Walter Hetherington, called upon
+me to-day and left his card. I suppose it is the same?”
+
+“Of course it is,” returned Edith. “But what could he want with
+_you?_”
+
+“I don’t in the least know. Nothing of very great importance, I
+suppose, since he promised to call again, and never reappeared.”
+
+The clergyman paused.
+
+They had come now to within a short distance of Edith’s home. Again,
+after a furtive look round, he clasped her fondly to him, pressed her
+lips, and murmured, “Good night, my Edith!”
+
+“Good night,” returned the girl, withdrawing herself reluctantly
+from his embrace. “Oh, I am so happy now! You were quite right, dear;
+another week like the last would have broken my heart!”
+
+Thus they parted--Edith, happy as a child, creeping quickly to the
+cottage; the good man smiling celestially, and well pleased to have
+made everything comfortable at little personal inconvenience, walking
+back to his holy hearth, and thinking of his Sunday sermon.
+
+
+
+
+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.”
+
+“No, you would not. I was in the organ-room. It is my Sunday for
+playing, you remember!”
+
+To this he made no reply. He was wondering how it was that Edith could
+manage so effectually to play such a double part. He expected at least
+a downcast eye, and a blush of guilt upon her cheek; with this he
+might have been tolerably satisfied. But Edith’s face looked brighter
+than it had done for many a day.
+
+“I forgot to ask you,” he said suddenly, “if your headache was
+better.”
+
+“My headache?” she replied. She had been so engrossed with happy
+thoughts at the reconciliation, that the question took her completely
+by surprise.
+
+“Ah yes,” she added, suddenly recollecting herself; “it is so much
+better, that I had quite forgotten it. You see what a good night’s
+rest will do!”
+
+Walter uttered an impatient sigh, and turned on his heel; while Edith
+added--
+
+“You are coming up to dine with us to-day, you know. Shall we walk
+together?”
+
+“I am not coming!”
+
+“Not coming? I thought----”
+
+“Yes, I did accept your aunt’s invitation; but I feel upset to-day,
+and am not fit company for anyone. Will you make my excuses at home?”
+
+“Yes, certainly I will; and I hope that to-morrow you will be so much
+better. Good-bye.”
+
+She shook hands with him, and tripped away.
+
+For a time Walter made no attempt to move, but gazed after her with
+eyes full of sadness and despair. Although he said to himself that
+henceforth Edith must be nothing to him, he felt pained at the
+curtness with which she could dismiss him. He had noticed that she had
+never once attempted to persuade him to alter his decision; indeed,
+she had not been able to hide from him her delight at hearing it, and
+he felt very bitter.
+
+He turned from the church, walked away, and, after strolling about for
+some time he knew not whither, he raised his head and found himself
+quite close to the schoolmistress’s cottage. Dora stood in the
+doorway, surrounded by her flowers.
+
+She came forward when she saw him, and, after giving him a bright
+smile and a warm handshake, stood by the gate and continued to talk.
+She was a wise little woman, and knew exactly what to say and what
+to leave unsaid; she had been a witness of the interview between the
+cousins in the churchyard that morning, and her woman’s instinct
+had divined something of the true state of things. So she chatted
+pleasantly to the young man, and took no notice whatever of his pale
+cheek and peculiarity of manner; and when he said suddenly, “Are you
+not going to ask me in to-day, Miss Greatheart?” she threw open the
+gate at once, and said that she was sadly neglectful and inhospitable,
+and that if Mr. Hetherington would like to come in, he would be more
+than welcome. So he followed her again into the quaint little parlour,
+and again took his seat by the open window, to gaze with strange,
+meditative eyes upon the little garden where the sun was shining. It
+was a ragged little garden enough, and by no means well cared for,
+since Dora was not rich enough to pay for labour, like her more
+fortunate neighbours in the village.
+
+During her leisure hours she worked among the flower-beds until her
+plump hands ached again; but, after all, her leisure hours were very
+few, and the grass and weeds grew so quickly. Walter saw that the
+grass was many inches too long, and that it was scattered thickly with
+withered rose-leaves; that here and there a rose tree was sadly in
+want of the pruning knife. But that did not make the scent of the
+flowers any the less delicious; nor did it take from the quiet beauty
+of their place. There was plenty of light and colour everywhere, and
+there was beauty.
+
+While looking at the garden, Walter began to think of the gardens
+mistress--quiet little Dora, living so contented among her children;
+and in the winter still living here alone, when the flowers had faded,
+when withered rose-leaves were scattered profusely on the grass, and
+the leafless branches of the trees bent before the biting breath of
+the bitter winter wind. It was a pretty picture of Dora--he loved it
+as we love the creatures of our imagination; it seemed to make Dora
+belong to him, artistically, as it were, and bring him consolation.
+Then his reflections took another turn, and he began, for the first
+time, to think it strange that the little woman should be so much
+alone.
+
+He said something of this to Dora; and she laughed and blushed, and
+answered frankly enough.
+
+“Yes, I am a good deal alone. You see, I am in an equivocal position.
+I am too good for the servants, and not good enough for their
+mistresses. I am only the governess!”
+
+“At any rate,” said Walter, “you have contrived to brighten up what
+would otherwise have been a very cheerless visit. As a token of my
+gratitude, will you accept a little present from me?”
+
+“I want no present, sir; your friendly words are quite enough.”
+
+“Nonsense! I should like to give you some of the sketches I have made
+of the village.”
+
+“To me! give them to me?” said Dora, with wide-open eyes. “Why, Mr.
+Hetherington, I thought you wanted them to--to-------”
+
+“To--what?”
+
+“Well, to remind you of this visit!”
+
+“Perhaps when I began them I had some notion of that kind in my head;
+we are all fools sometimes, you know. But I have changed my mind; I
+don’t want to be reminded of this visit. Yes, I shall give you the
+sketches--that is to say, if you will accept them; and when I have
+taken my departure--and I shall do so soon--I shall try to forget that
+such a village as Omberley ever existed at all.”
+
+“And the people,” said Dora; “of course you will try to forget the
+people?”
+
+“That is the first thing I shall try to do!”
+
+We are most of us selfish in our grief, and Walter was no exception to
+the rule. Mortified and suffering himself, it never once entered his
+head that he might be unpolite, and even rude, to another. But the
+knife entered Dora’s little heart, and made her wince. She had been
+happy in the knowledge that she had met a fellow-creature who could
+treat her exactly as an equal--a man whom she could call a friend; and
+lo! when her interest is strongest, when she has been telling herself
+that the memory of the few days which he has brightened for ever will
+linger in her memory and never die, he came to tell her that his first
+effort would be to forget the place--and _her_.
+
+“I will take the pictures, if you like, Mr. Hetherington, but merely
+as a loan. You will change your mind again.. I am convinced that some
+day you will ask me for them back again, and when you do they shall
+certainly be yours. But the sketch of the cottage--is it finished
+already?”
+
+“The sketch of the cottage? Oh, I should like to keep _that_. It
+contains the picture of a lady whom I should certainly not like to
+forget.”
+
+Then, while the glad light danced in Dora’s eyes again, he rose and
+took her hand, as he said--
+
+“Good-bye, Miss Greatheart. When I said I should forget the village
+and the people I was wrong. Your kindness and hospitality I shall
+always remember.”
+
+So he crossed the threshold of the happy little schoolhouse, to stroll
+out again into the sunshine; and again he thought very bitterly of the
+woman who had effectually taken all the sunshine from his life.
+
+He need not have thought so bitterly of her. If she had wounded him
+she was receiving her punishment.
+
+Having left Walter in the churchyard, Edith flew home like one walking
+on air. She had accepted his decision gleefully, never attempting to
+alter it by word or look, for she was thinking all the time of the
+invitation she had received from Mr. Santley, and which had cost
+her such a pang to refuse. Walter’s sudden determination left her
+free--free to spend a few hours in the company of the man who was more
+to her than the whole world. Lighthearted and happy, she hurried home,
+gave Walter’s message to her aunt, and then sat down and made a very
+hearty meal. After it was over, and a reasonable time had elapsed,
+she again put on her hat, and told her aunt she was going down to the
+Vicarage.
+
+“I shan’t be back till late, aunt,” she added, “for, as I have to
+go to the Vicarage, I may as well walk to evening service with Miss
+Santley. If Walter changes his mind and comes, you will look after him
+well, won’t you?”
+
+And Mrs. Russell, promising implicit obedience, kissed her niece
+fondly, and watched her go down the road. On reaching the Vicarage,
+Edith was admitted at once. There was no necessity to take her card
+and keep her waiting while she ascertained if master or mistress was
+at home. She was known to the servants as a visitor who was always
+welcome--at any rate to the mistress of the house. So, without any
+preamble at all, she was shown into the sitting-room, and into the
+presence of Miss Santley.
+
+The room was as luxuriously furnished as any in the Vicarage, and
+charmingly decorated with the choicest of hothouse flowers. The lady
+sat in a low wicker chair, with a book in her hand, and at her elbow
+a little gipsy table, holding a tea-service of Dresden china. The
+opening of the door disturbed the lady. She let her book fall upon her
+knee, and looked up dreamily; but the moment her eye fell upon Edith
+she rose, smiling brightly, gave the girl both her hands, and kissed
+her fondly.
+
+“My dear Edith, I am so glad!” she exclaimed; and there was a ring of
+genuine welcome in her voice. “Why, you are a perfect stranger.--Jane,
+bring a cup for Miss Dove.--Now, dear, select your chair, take off
+your hat, and make yourself comfortable.”
+
+Edith did as she was bidden. She placed her hat on one of the many
+little tables with which the room abounded, stood before one of
+the glasses for a moment to rectify any disarrangement of hair and
+costume; then she drew forth a little wicker chair similar to that
+occupied by her hostess, and sat down. By this time the teapot was
+brought in, and the tea poured, so Edith sat and sipped it, talking
+and laughing meanwhile like a happy child.
+
+“Well, dear,” said Miss Santley, “and what have you been doing with
+yourself all the week? Charles tells me you have a cousin in the
+village, who completely monopolizes you. By the way, he told me that
+he had tried to persuade you to come to tea to-day, but that you had
+positively refused. That could not have been true.”
+
+“Yes, it was true,” returned Edith. “I did refuse when he asked me,
+because I thought I could not come. I thought my cousin would dine
+with us as usual; but I met him at church this morning, and he said he
+was rather unwell and could not come. So I thought it would not matter
+if I came after all.”
+
+“Matter! My dear, I am delighted.” And so, having thus satisfactorily
+arranged matters, the two sat chatting to their hearts’ content.
+
+It was very pleasant, exceedingly pleasant--at any other time Edith
+would have enjoyed it hugely; but as the hands of the bronze clock on
+the chimneypiece travelled so quickly round, she began to grow uneasy,
+and to wonder at the protracted absence of her lover. Miss Santley was
+a very pleasant person indeed, and Edith was very fond of her; but it
+had been a stronger inducement than Miss Santley that had brought
+her to the Vicarage that afternoon. Santley must know she was in the
+house, thought Edith; it was strange he did not come.
+
+Suddenly Miss Santley glanced at the clock. In a moment she was on her
+feet.
+
+“My dear,” she exclaimed, “how the time has flown! Do you play again
+to-night?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+The lady nodded.
+
+“Well walk to church together, dear,” she said. “Amuse yourself by
+looking at the books, while I run away to get my bonnet and mantle
+on.”
+
+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.
+
+“Why, my dear!” exclaimed Miss Santley. “Whatever is the matter? Has
+anything happened?”
+
+“No, nothing,” said Edith, faintly. “I have got a very bad headache,
+that is all; and--and--I cannot go to church again to-day, Miss
+Santley.”
+
+“Go to church,” echoed Miss Santley. “Why, my dearest girl, of course
+you cant go to church! I will send Jane with a message to Charles, and
+stay and take care of you.”
+
+But this Edith would not allow. She pulled the handkerchief from her
+forehead, and declared her intention of going home.
+
+Miss Santley kissed her kindly. At this exhibition of tenderness Edith
+fairly broke down. She threw her arms around the lady’s neck, and
+burst into tears.
+
+“I--I am so sorry,” she said at last, when her sobs had somewhat
+subsided; “but I could not help it. I--I am such a coward when I am
+ill!”
+
+Miss Santley said nothing; she knew she could do nothing. There was
+some mystery here which she could not fathom, so she yielded to the
+girl’s solicitations and allowed her to go home.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII. AT THE VICARAGE.
+
+|One evening about the middle of the week, as the Rev. Mr. Santley sat
+alone in his study a card was brought to him, on which was printed--
+
+Mr. Walter Hetherington.
+
+The clergyman raised his brows as he read, and asked the maid, who
+waited respectfully at the door, if the gentleman had not called upon
+him before.
+
+“Once before, sir!”
+
+“Did he state his business?”
+
+“He did not, sir; he only said he would not detain you long.”
+
+“Well, ask the gentleman to be good enough to walk this way.”
+
+The maid retired, and a moment afterwards Walter entered the room.
+
+The two men bowed to each other. One glance had assured Santley that
+any attempt at a warmer greeting would be injudicious; the other might
+not respond, and it would never do for the vicar of the parish to be
+snubbed by an itinerant painter whom nobody knew--besides, under the
+circumstances, a bow was ample greeting. He infused into it as much
+politeness as possible, welcomed his young friend to the Vicarage,
+and, pointing to a chair which he had drawn forward, begged him to
+be seated. Decidedly the clergyman was the most self-possessed of
+the two. For Walter took his seat in nervous silence; while Santley,
+wondering greatly in his own mind what could possibly have procured
+him the honour of that visit, kept the scene from flagging by that
+wonderful gift of small talk with which he was possessed.
+
+He was very pleased indeed to meet Mr. Hetherington. He had done him
+the honour to call upon him once before he thought--yes, he was sure
+of it; and he had also had the pleasure of meeting him once
+before, when he had not had the honour of his acquaintance. Was Mr.
+Hetherington thinking of making a long stay amongst them?
+
+“Not very long,” said Walter.
+
+“I suppose you have made some charming sketches?” continued the
+clergyman. “There are pretty little spots about the village, spots
+well worthy of a painters brush. I used to do a little in that way
+myself when I was a youngster at college; but the vicar of a parish
+has onerous duties. I suppose at the present moment I should hardly
+know how to handle a brush. Are you thinking of leaving us soon, Mr.
+Hetherington?”
+
+“I am not quite sure!”
+
+“Ah! well, if you stay and would like to make use of my library, I
+should feel greatly honoured. It is the only thing I have to offer
+you, I fear; but I shall be very pleased indeed to put it at your
+service. It contains a few books on your own art, which might interest
+you.”
+
+“You are very kind, Mr. Santley.”
+
+“Not at all, my dear sir; I am merely neighbourly. Life would be
+dreary indeed if one could not be neighbourly in a place like this!”
+
+“Mr. Santley, I have come to you for your advice.”
+
+The clergyman, nervously dreading what was to follow, looked at his
+visitor with a calm smile, and answered pleasantly enough.
+
+“My advice? My dear sir, I place it freely at your service, and myself
+also if I can be of the slightest use to you.”
+
+“You can be of very great use to me.”
+
+The clergyman merely bowed this time and waited, so Walter continued--
+
+“You know my cousin, Miss Edith Dove?”
+
+As he spoke he fixed his eyes keenly upon the clergyman’s face, but
+the latter made no sign; he neither winced nor changed colour, but
+answered calmly enough.
+
+“I have the pleasure of the lady’s acquaintance. She is one of the
+most esteemed members of my congregation.”
+
+“It is about Miss Dove I wished to speak to you.”
+
+Again the clergyman bowed; again he found it unnecessary to make a
+reply.
+
+Walter, growing somewhat ill at ease, continued--
+
+“I don’t mind confessing to you, Mr. Santley, that at one period of my
+career I hoped most earnestly, and indeed confidently believed, that
+at no very remote date I should have the happiness of making her my
+wife. I was sincerely attached to her; I believe she was attached to
+me. But recently all has changed. She is wasting her life; throwing
+aside all chance of happiness, through some mad infatuation about the
+Church.”
+
+“Some mad infatuation about the Church!” returned the clergyman,
+methodically. “Really, my dear sir, I am afraid you forget you are
+speaking to a clergyman of the Church. As to Miss Dove, she is a
+lady whose conduct is without reproach; she is one of the Church’s
+staunchest supporters!”
+
+“Then you approve her present mode of life; you uphold it? You will
+not advise her to shake her morbid fancies away? to accept an honest
+affection and a happy home?”
+
+Santley seemed to reflect.
+
+“As a clergyman of the Church, I should advise her the other way,
+I think. Surely the fulfilment of religious duties points to a more
+elevated mode of existence than mere marrying and giving in marriage.
+I am sorry for you, since I believe that any man possessed of that
+lady’s esteem might deem himself fortunate; still, I could not advise
+her to act against her conscience and the promptings of religion.”
+
+“And me, what do you advise me to do?”
+
+The clergyman shrugged his shoulders. “It seems to me that there is
+only one thing that you can do. If the lady finds your attentions
+disagreeable, surely the most honourable course for you to adopt would
+be to leave her--in peace.” Walter rose, and the clergyman breathed
+more freely, believing that the interview had come to a satisfactory
+end. Neither of them spoke for a minute or so, till the clergyman
+looked up, and said quietly--
+
+“You have something more to say, Mr. Hetherington?”
+
+“Yes,” 9 answered Walter; “I have something more to say.” Then, going
+a few steps nearer to the clergyman, he added, “You are a hypocrite,
+Mr. Santley!”
+
+The clergyman’s face grew pale. He rose hastily from his seat; but
+before he could speak Walter continued, vehemently--
+
+“Do you think I don’t know you? Do you think I haven’t discovered that
+it is you, and not the Church, who has taken my cousin from me? You
+talk to me of religion, of religious duties, and yet you know that you
+are playing the hypocrite to her, as you have done to me, and that you
+are breaking her heart.”
+
+He paused, flushed, excited, and angry. The clergyman stood calm and
+very pale.
+
+“You do well to seek this interview in my house, sir,” he said. “Now
+you have insulted me with impunity, perhaps you will take your leave.”
+
+But Walter made no attempt to move.
+
+“Before I go,” he said, “I wish to know what are your plans regarding
+my cousin?”
+
+“And I should like to ask you, sir,” returned the clergyman, “what
+authority you have for interfering in my private affairs?”
+
+“I have no authority; your private affairs are nothing to me. I speak
+in the interest of my cousin!”
+
+“Really! I should fancy your interference would be hardly likely to do
+her much good.” #
+
+“Mr. Santley, I shall ask you one more question. Do you, or do you
+not, mean to marry my cousin?”
+
+“And if I refuse to answer?”
+
+“I shall make it my duty, before tomorrow night, to expose you.”
+
+“Really!” returned the clergyman, with an exasperating smile. “You
+will draw your cousin’s good name through the mire in order to throw a
+little mud at me. I should think, young man, you must be a treasure
+to your family. Good evening. I will ring for the servant to show you
+out.”
+
+And he did ring--at the most opportune moment too; for Walter,
+staggered by that last thrust, perceived that his enemy was on the
+side of power. So, when in answer to her master’s summons the servant
+appeared, Walter followed her; he was afraid to utter another word,
+for Edith’s sake.
+
+When he was gone, all Santley’s calmness deserted him, and he walked
+up and down the room in a fit of uncontrollable rage. When he had
+grown calmer, he sat down and wrote one of his neatly worded epistles
+to Edith, making an appointment for the following day.
+
+He half believed that Walter had come to him, as Edith’s authorized
+messenger, to attempt to force upon him those bonds which he was
+so very reluctant to wear. The clergyman could not in any other way
+account for his knowledge of the relations existing between the
+two. It was well for Edith that at that moment she was not near her
+lover--well for her, also, that no meeting could take place between
+them until the following day.
+
+The next day Santley was very much more composed, and when he walked
+towards the trysting-place none would have known, from his outward
+appearance, that anything was materially wrong. He had made the
+appointment in daylight this time; since embraces could be dispensed
+with, so also could darkness and night. There was really nothing in
+this meeting after all; nothing but what might have been witnessed by
+a dozen pair of eyes. Those who did see it would see only an event of
+ordinary everyday life.
+
+Miss Edith Dove, walking leisurely towards the village, was overtaken
+by the clergyman, who paused to shake hands with her, and to walk with
+her a part of the way. Had any one looked closely at these two, he
+would have seen that the clergyman, though calm, was very pale; that
+Edith, pale too, had a weary, listless look about her face; that after
+she had shaken hands with her pastor, she quickly turned away her
+head, for her eyes grew dim with tears.
+
+If Santley saw the tears he did not care to notice them. He had
+found, directly they met, that she was suffering from one of those
+deplorable fits of temper which had more than once caused trouble
+between them; but that could not be taken any notice of now. If she
+chose to wear herself to a shadow, it was her own affair; he had
+something more important on hand. The interview could not be a long
+one, therefore he must reach the heart of the matter at once.
+
+So he began abruptly--
+
+“Edith, this new course you have adopted is a dangerous one, and had
+better be abandoned without loss of time.”
+
+The girl raised her eyes to his face, and asked wearily--
+
+“What do you mean? What have I done?”
+
+“I suppose you are responsible for your cousin’s visit to my house;
+you must have instigated it, if you did not actually advise him!”
+
+Again she raised her troubled eyes to his face, and said sadly--
+
+“I don’t know what you mean.”
+
+“Then I will tell you, Edith. Your cousin, a hot-headed, ill-mannered
+youth, has thought fit to take upon himself the part of protector, or
+guardian, of your happiness. In this capacity he paid me a domiciliary
+visit yesterday, and treated me to some most violent abuse. He
+threatened to make known to the public the relations between us. I
+advised him to think it over, for your sake!”
+
+“My cousin--Walter Hetherington, do you mean?”
+
+“Most certainly.”
+
+“But how does he know? how has he learned?”
+
+“From you, I suppose.”
+
+“No; it is not from me,” returned Edith, whose listlessness was fast
+disappearing. “I have said nothing; I have never even mentioned your
+name to him. It must be known; it must be talked of in the village.
+Oh, Charles, spare me! Keep your promise to me, for God’s sake! Any
+open disgrace would be more than I could bear. I should die.”
+
+The girl, overcome by her emotion, had forgotten for the moment that
+their present interview was a perfectly public one. The clergyman
+coldly reminded her of the fact. Then, after she had forced upon
+herself a composure which she was far from feeling, he continued--“You
+had better understand, Edith, once and for ever, that whatever
+my conduct may be, I do not choose to have it questioned by this
+exceedingly officious young man. A repetition of the scene of
+yesterday I will not bear. And as it is evident to me that my actions
+are under surveillance, I must refuse either to see or hear from you
+again, until that young man has removed himself from the village.”
+
+“Charles, you surely don’t mean that?” exclaimed the girl.
+
+But he certainly did mean it, and though she pleaded and argued, he
+remained firm. At last she resolved that she would speak to Walter,
+resent his interference, and, if possible, induce him to return home.
+
+Then the two shook hands and parted.
+
+That evening Walter dined at the-cottage. During the dinner Edith
+scarcely looked at him; while he himself was silent and distrait. But
+after dinner, when they had all retired to the drawing-room, when the
+old lady had settled down to her wool-work, and Walter had lit his
+cigar, Edith threw a light shawl over her head, and asked him if he
+would come with her into the garden.
+
+Wondering very much at the request, Walter rose at once, and offered
+her his arm. She took it; but the moment they were alone she withdrew
+her hand and turned angrily upon him. Walter listened, and he found
+that he had some chance of being heard. He acknowledged that she had
+spoken the truth; he _had_ interfered; he had deemed it quite right
+that he should do so for her sake.
+
+“For my sake!” returned Edith. “It seems to me there is more of
+selfishness than benevolence in what you have done. What is it to
+you if I am engaged to Mr. Santley? and if we choose to keep our
+engagement a secret, what is that to you? I am my own mistress; I can
+act just as I think fit, without the fear of coercion from any one.
+_You_, at any rate, have no right to regulate my actions or to dictate
+them. I suppose you think I have no right to marry any one, simply
+because I refuse to be coerced into marrying you!”
+
+It was a cruel thing to say; but Edith was simply dealing him,
+secondhand, some of the stabs which she herself had received from her
+beloved pastor in the morning. The stabs went deep into his heart, and
+the wounds remained for many a day. When Edith had uttered a few more
+truisms with the characteristic selfishness of love and hatred, Walter
+coldly suggested that their pleasant stroll in the garden might be
+brought to a termination.
+
+They returned together to the house. As the old lady, beaming with
+delight at what she believed to be the sudden and happy reconciliation
+of the cousins, had prepared the tea, Walter pleased her by sitting
+down to take some before he said good night.
+
+But the next day he returned to town.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII. DR. DUPRÉ’S ELIXIR.
+
+|George Haldane returned home in the best of spirits. His paper had
+been received with enthusiasm by the _savants_ of France, and his
+life in Paris had been one pleasant succession of visits, learned
+conversaziones, and private entertainments. Thanks to his happy
+pre-occupation, he scarcely noticed that his wife’s manner was
+constrained, nervous, yet deeply solicitous; that she looked pale
+and worn, as if with constant watching; and that, in answer to his
+careless questioning as to affairs at home, she made only fragmentary
+replies.
+
+On entering his dressing-room to change his apparel, he found
+Baptisto, who was quietly undoing his portmanteau and selecting the
+necessary things with a calm air, as if his services had never been
+interrupted.
+
+“So, my Baptisto,” he said, clapping that worthy on the shoulder, “you
+are not dead or buried, I see? Ah, you may smile, but I am quite aware
+of the trick you played me. Well, you have been the loser. You would
+have had a pleasant time of it in Paris, the best of entertainment,
+and nothing whatever to do.”
+
+“I am glad you have returned, senor,” replied Baptisto, with his
+customary solemnity.
+
+“I hope you have given satisfaction to your mistress during my
+absence?”
+
+“I hope so, senor.”
+
+“Humph! we shall see what report she has to make concerning you, and
+if that is favourable, I may forgive your freak of laziness.”
+
+“I have not been lazy, senor,” said Baptisto, quietly preparing the
+toilette.
+
+“Indeed! Pray, how have you been employing yourself?”
+
+Baptisto did not reply, but smiled again.
+
+“How is your inamerata and her family? I saw the little woman
+curtsying as I passed through the lodge-gates.”
+
+Baptisto shook his head solemnly.
+
+“Ah, senor,” he said, “you are mistaken. The woman of the lodge is a
+stupid person; and for the rest, I put no faith in women. _Cuerpo di
+Baccho_, no! They smile upon us when we are near; but no sooner do we
+turn our backs, than they smile upon some other man.”
+
+“Pretty philosophy,” returned Haldane, with a laugh. “Why, you are a
+downright misogynist, my Baptisto. But I don’t believe one word you
+say, for all that. Men who talk like you are generally very easy
+conquests, and I would bet twenty to one on the little widow still.”
+
+“Ah, senor, if all women were like your signora, it would be
+different. She is so good, so pure, so faithful at her devotions. It
+is a great thing to have religion.”
+
+As Baptisto spoke his back was turned to his master, so that the
+extraordinary expression of his face was unnoticed, and there was no
+indication in his tone that he spoke satirically. Haldane shrugged his
+shoulders and said nothing, not caring to discuss his wife’s virtues
+with a servant, however familiar. Presently he went downstairs to
+dinner. All that evening he was very affectionate and merry, talking
+volubly of his adventures in Paris, of his scientific acquaintances,
+and of such new discoveries as they had brought under his notice.
+In the course of his happy chat he spoke frequently of a new
+acquaintance, one Dr. Dupré, whom he had met in the French capital.
+“The French, however far behind the Germans in speculative affairs,”
+ he observed, “are far their superiors, and ours, in physiology. Take
+this Dupré, for example. He is a wonderful fellow! His dissections and
+vivisections’ have brought him to such a point of mastery that he is
+almost certain that he has discovered the problem poor Lewes broke his
+heart over--how and by what mechanism we can’t think. I don’t quite
+believe he has succeeded in that great discovery, but some of his
+minor discoveries are extraordinary. Did you read the account in the
+papers of his elixir of death?”
+
+Ellen shook her head. The very name seemed horrible.
+
+“His elixir of death?” she repeated.
+
+“Yes. A chemical preparation, the fundamental principle of which is
+morphine. By its agency he can so produce in a living organism the
+ordinary phenomena of death, that even _rigor mortis_ is simulated. I
+saw the experiment tried on two rabbits, a Newfoundland dog, and, to
+crown all, on the human subject. They were all, to every appearance,
+dead; the rabbits for twenty-four hours, the dog for half a day, and
+the woman for an hour and a half.”
+
+“Horrible!” exclaimed Ellen, with a shudder. “Do you actually mean he
+experimented on a living woman?”
+
+“Yes; on a strapping wench, the daughter of his housekeeper; and a
+very fine thing she made of it. We subscribed together, and presented
+her with a purse of a thousand francs.”
+
+“I think such things are wicked,” cried Ellen, with some warmth. “Mere
+mortals have no right to play, in that way, with the mystery of life
+and death.”
+
+“My dear Nell,” cried Haldane, laughing, “it is in the interests of
+science!”
+
+“But I am sure it is not right. Life is given and taken by God alone.”
+
+“Your argument, if accepted, would make all mankind accept the
+religion of the Peculiar People, who will cure no diseases by human
+intervention. As to this business of suspended animation, it is merely
+a part of our discoveries in anodynes. Dupré’s experiment, I know, is
+perfectly safe.”
+
+“But that is not the question.”
+
+“How so, my dear?”
+
+“What I mean is, that death is too solemn and awful a thing to imitate
+as you describe. Such experiments are simply blasphemous, in my
+opinion.”
+
+“Come, come,” cried the philosopher. “There is no blasphemy where
+there is no irreverence. According to your religious people, your
+priests of the churches, there was blasphemy in circumnavigating the
+globe; in discovering the circulation of the blood; in ascertaining
+the age of the earth; and, still later, in using chloroform to lessen
+the pangs of parturition.”
+
+“But what purpose can be served by such experiments as _that?_”
+
+“A good many,” was the reply. “For example, it may help us to the
+discovery of the nature of life itself, which has puzzled everybody,
+from Parmenides down to Haeckel. If we can by a simple anodyne suspend
+the vital mechanism for a period, and then by a vegetable antidote
+restore it again to action, the resurrection of Lazarus will cease to
+be a miracle, and the pretensions of Christianity----”
+
+Ellen rose impatiently, with an expression of sincere pain.
+
+“My dear Nell, what is the matter?” cried her husband.
+
+“I cannot bear to hear you discuss such a thing. Oh, George, if you
+would leave such wicked speculations alone, and try to believe in the
+mystery and sovereignty of God!”
+
+“You mean, burn my books, and go to hear your seraphic friend every
+Sunday?”
+
+Had he not touched, unconsciously, on another painful chord? Why,
+otherwise, did his wife flush scarlet and partially avert her face?
+Conquering herself with an effort, she went over to him, and bending
+over him, looked fondly into his face.
+
+“You are so much cleverer than I, so much wiser, and do you think I am
+not proud of your wisdom? But, all the same, dear, I wish you did not
+think as you do. When life becomes a mere experiment, a mere thing of
+mechanism, what will be left? If we knew everything, even what we are,
+and why we exist, the world would be a tomb--with no place in it for
+the Living God.”
+
+Touched by her manner, Haldane drew her down by his side and kissed
+her; then, with more earnestness than he had yet exhibited, he
+answered her, holding her hand in his own and pressing it softly.
+
+“My dear Nell, do me the justice to believe that I am not quite a
+materialist; simple agnosticism is the very converse of materialism.
+There is not living a scientific philosopher of any eminence who
+does not, in his calculations, postulate a mystery which can never be
+solved by the finest intellect. Even if we had fully completed, with
+the poet--=
+
+```'The new creed of science, which showeth to man
+
+`````How he darkly began,
+
+```How he grew from a cell to a soul, without plan;
+
+```How he breaks like a wave of the ocean, and goes
+
+`````To eternal repose--
+
+```A tone that must fade, tho’ the great Music grows!
+
+even then, we should know nothing of the First Cause. That must for
+ever remain inscrutable.”
+
+“But how horrible it would be to believe in annihilation? _Can_ you
+believe in it?”
+
+“Certainly not,” replied the philosopher.
+
+Ellens face brightened.
+
+“Oh, I am so glad to hear you say that!”
+
+“My dear Nell, annihilation is absurd.”
+
+“Now, isn’t it?” she cried triumphantly.
+
+“It is refuted, on the face of it, by the doctrine of the conservation
+of force. Life is eternal, in one shape or another; no force can be
+destroyed, be sure of that!”
+
+“I wish Mr. Santley could hear you! He wouldn’t call you an atheist
+then!”
+
+Haldane’s face darkened angrily.
+
+“What? Does the man actually----”
+
+“Don’t misunderstand,” cried Ellen, flushing scarlet. “I do not mean
+that he really calls you an atheist, but he is so sorry, so deeply
+sorry, that you do not believe. He does not know you, dear, and takes
+all my bear’s satirical growling for solemn earnest. Now, when I tell
+him----”
+
+“You will tell him nothing,” exclaimed Haldane, with sudden sternness.
+“I will have no priest coming between my wife and me!”
+
+“Mr. Santley would never do that,” she returned, now trembling
+violently.
+
+“Mr. Santley is like all his tribe, I suppose--a meddler and a
+mischief-maker. That is the worst of other-worldliness; it gives these
+traders in the Godhead, these peddlers who would give us in exchange
+for belief in their superstitions a _bonus_ in paradise, an excuse for
+making this world unbearable. Well, my atheism, if you choose to call
+it so, against his theism. Mine at least keeps me a man among men,
+while his keeps him a twaddler among women.”
+
+Haldane spoke with heat, for the word “atheist” had somehow stung him
+to the quick. This man, who rejected all outward forms of belief, and
+whose conversation was habitually ironical, was in his inmost nature
+deeply and sincerely religious; humbly reverent before the forces of
+nature; spiritually conscious of that Power beyond ourselves which
+makes for righteousness. True, he rejected the ordinary forms of
+theism; but he had, on the other hand, a deep though dumb reverence
+for the character of Christ, and he had no sympathy with such
+out-and-out materialists as Haeckel and _hoc genus omne_. For the
+rest, he was liberal-minded, and had no desire to interfere with his
+wife’s convictions; could smile a little at her simplicity, and would
+see no harm in her clerical predispositions, so long as the clergyman
+didn’t encroach too far on the domain of married life and domestic
+privacy.
+
+His indignation did not last. Seeing his wife greatly agitated, and
+fearing that he had caused her pain, he drew her forehead down and
+kissed it; then, patting her cheek, he said--
+
+“Forgive me, Nell. I did not mean to scold; but one does not like hard
+names. When any one calls me ‘atheist,’ I am like the old woman whom
+Cobbett called a ‘parallelogram;’ it is not the significance of the
+epithet, but its opprobrium, that rouses me. Besides, I do not like
+any man to abuse me--to my own wife.”
+
+“No one does that,” she cried. “You know I would not listen.”
+
+“I hope not, my dear.” He added after a little, looking at her
+thoughtfully and sadly, “Man and wife have fallen asunder before
+now, on this very question of religion. Well, rather than that should
+happen, I will let you convert me. Will that satisfy you?”
+
+“I shall never be quite satisfied till I know that you believe as I
+do.”
+
+“What is that, pray?”
+
+“That there is a just God, who made and cherishes us; and that,
+through the blood of His Son we shall live again although we die!”
+
+“Well, it is a beautiful creed, my dear.”
+
+“And true?”
+
+“Why not? I will go with you thus far. I believe that, if there is a
+God, He is just, and that we shall certainly live again, if it is for
+our good.”
+
+The emphasis with which he spoke the last words attracted her
+attention.
+
+“For our good?” she queried.
+
+“I am quoting the saddest words ever written, by the saddest and best
+man I ever knew. * He, too, believed that a God might spare us, and
+give us eternal life, if--mark the proviso--eternal life were indeed
+_for our good._ But suppose the contrary--suppose God knew better, and
+that it would be an evil and unhappy gift? Alas! who knows?”
+
+     *  J. S. Mill.
+
+He rose from his chair, still encircling his wife’s waist, and moved
+towards the door.
+
+“Come to the drawing-room,” he cried gaily. “After so much offhand
+theology, a little music will be delightful. Ah, Nell, one breath of
+Beethoven is worth all the prosings of your parsons. Play to me, and,
+while the music lasts, I will believe what you will.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIV. THE EXPERIMENT.
+
+|The next morning Haldane was busy in his laboratory. When he came in
+to lunch, looking disreputable enough in his old coat, and smelling
+strongly of tobacco, he said to his wife--
+
+“By-the-by, Nell, do you remember what I told you last night about
+Dupré’s wonderful elixir? I forgot to tell you that I have brought
+some of it with me, for purposes of private experiment.” Ellen looked
+horrified.
+
+“Don’t be afraid,” he continued, laughing; “your cats and dogs are
+safe from me. I have found a better subject, and mean to operate on
+him this very afternoon.”
+
+“Whom do you mean?”
+
+“As a sort of penance for his shamming illness, I shall kill
+Baptisto.”
+
+She uttered a cry, and raised her hands in protest.
+
+“For heavens sake, George, be warned! If you have any of that horrible
+stuff, throw it away.”
+
+“Now, my dear Nell,” said the philosopher, “be reasonable; there is
+not the slightest cause for alarm. You will see this experiment, and
+it will, I hope, treble your faith in miracles.”
+
+“I will _not_ see it. I beseech you, abandon the idea. As for
+Baptisto----”
+
+At this moment the Spaniard entered the room, carrying certain dishes.
+
+“I have been telling your mistress, Baptisto, that you are ready to
+be a martyr to science. At four o’clock precisely, you will be a dead
+man.”
+
+Baptisto bowed solemnly.
+
+“I am quite ready, senor.”
+
+But here Ellen interposed.
+
+“It is ridiculous; your master is only joking. He would not do
+anything so foolish, so wicked. As for you, I forbid you to encourage
+him.”
+
+Baptisto bowed again, with a curious smile.
+
+“It is for the senor to command. As he knows, he has saved my life,
+and he may take it whenever he pleases.”
+
+Haldane nodded, in the act of drinking a glass of wine.
+
+“Don’t be afraid, Baptisto. After death, there is the resurrection.”
+
+“That, senor, is your affair,” returned the Spaniard, phlegmatically,
+shrugging his shoulders. “You will do with me as you please.”
+
+And so saying, he glided from the room.
+
+Ellen again and again entreated her husband not to proceed in his
+experiment; but he had long made up his mind that it was perfectly
+safe, and he could not be persuaded. To her gentle: spirit, the whole
+idea seemed horrible in the extreme; but her greatest dread was that
+it might be attended with danger to the subject. Haldane, however,
+assured her that this was impossible.
+
+All the afternoon Haldane and Baptisto were together in the
+laboratory. A little after four o’clock, as Ellen was walking on the
+terrace, Haldane came to her, smiling and holding up a small vial.
+
+“It is all over,” he said, “and the experiment is quite successful.
+Come and see.”
+
+Not quite understanding him, she suffered him to lead her into the
+laboratory; but, on crossing the threshold, she uttered a cry of
+horror. Stretched on a sofa, lay Baptisto, moveless, and, to all
+seeming, without one breath of life. His eyes were wide open, but
+rayless; his jaw fixed, his face pale as grey marble; a peaceful
+smile, as of death itself, upon his handsome face. The light of the
+sun, just sinking towards the west, streamed in through the high
+window upon the apparently lifeless form. In the chamber itself there
+was a sickly smell, like that of some suffocating vapour. The whole
+scene would have startled and appalled even a strong man.
+
+“Oh, George!” cried the lady, clasping her hands. “What have you
+done?”
+
+“Don’t be alarmed,” was the reply, “Its all right!”
+
+“But you said the experiment-----
+
+“Was successful? Perfectly. There lies our poor friend, comfortably
+finished.”
+
+“But are you sure, quite sure, that he is not dead? He is not
+breathing.”
+
+“Of course not. The simulation is perfect. Place your hand on his
+wrist--you will detect no pulse. Turn his pupils to the light--you
+see, they do not contract. The case would deceive a whole college of
+physicians.”
+
+As he spoke, he suited the action to the word--placed his finger upon
+the pulse, gazed at the glazing pupils; raised one of the lifeless
+arms, which, on being released, fell heavily as lead.
+
+“Horrible, horrible! For God’s sake, recover him!”
+
+“All in good time. He has only been dead a quarter of an hour; in half
+an hour precisely I shall say, ‘Arise and walk.’ Feel his forehead,
+Nell; it is as cold as marble.”
+
+But Ellen drew back, shuddering, and could not be persuaded to touch
+the sleeper.
+
+“Well, go back to your promenade. I will call you when he is
+awakened.” Sick and terrified, Ellen obeyed her husband. Standing on
+the terrace, she waited for his summons; and at last it came. Haldane
+appeared, and beckoned; she followed him to the laboratory, and there,
+seated in an armchair, comfortably sipping a glass of wine, was the
+Spaniard--a little pale still, but otherwise not the worse for his
+state of coma.
+
+“Thank God!” cried Ellen.
+
+“I thought he would never recover. But it must have been a horrible
+experience.”
+
+Baptisto smiled.
+
+“Tell the signora all about it,” said his master. “Did you feel any
+pain?”
+
+“None, senor.”
+
+“What were your sensations? Pleasant or otherwise?”
+
+“Quite pleasant, senor. It was like sinking into an agreeable sleep.
+If death is like that, it is a bagatelle.”
+
+“Were you at all conscious?”
+
+“Not of this world, senor, but I had bright dreams of another. I
+thought I was in paradise, walking in the sunshine--ah, so bright! I
+was sorry, senor, when I came back to this world.”
+
+“You hear!” cried Haldane, turning to his wife. “After all, death
+itself may be a glorious experience; for ‘in that sleep of death what
+dreams may come!’ It is quite clear at least that all the phenomena
+of death, such as we shrink from and shudder at, may be accompanied by
+some kind of pleasant psychic consciousness. Bravo, Baptisto! After
+this, we shall call you Lazarus the second. You have passed beyond the
+shadow of the sepulchre, and returned to tell the tale.”
+
+Despite the resuscitation, Ellen still revolted from the whole
+proceeding.
+
+“Now you are satisfied,” she said, “promise me never to use that
+dreadful elixir again.”
+
+“I think you may make your mind easy. The experiment is an ugly one,
+I admit, and I am not anxious to repeat it--at least, not on the human
+organism. For the same reason, my dear Nell, pray keep the affair to
+yourself, and make no confidences, even to your confessor--I should
+say, your clergyman, Will you promise?”
+
+“Most certainly. I should not like any one to know you did such
+things. As for Mr. Santley, he would be shocked beyond measure.”
+
+So saying, she left the two men together. In the mean time, Baptisto
+had-finished his wine and risen to his feet. While his master regarded
+him with an approving smile, he walked over to the door, softly closed
+it, and returning noiselessly across the room, said in a low voice--
+
+“There is something, senor, I did not tell you. I had dreams.”
+
+“So you said, my Baptisto.”
+
+“Ah yes, but not all. While I was lying there, I thought that _you_
+were the dead man, and that the senora, your widow, had married.”
+
+“Married?”
+
+“The English priest.”
+
+Haldane started, and looked in amazement at the speaker.
+
+“What the devil do you mean?”
+
+“Ah, senor, it was only my dream; a foolish dream. You were lying
+in your winding-sheet, and they were kneeling at the altar--smiling,
+senor. I did not like to speak of it to the senora; but it was very
+strange.”
+
+Haldane forced a laugh, while, with a mysterious look, Baptisto crept
+from the chamber. Was it in sheer simplicity or in deep cunning that
+the Spaniard had spoken, touching so delicate a chord? Left alone,
+Haldane paced up and down the laboratory in agitation. He was not
+by temperament a jealous or a suspicious man, but he was troubled
+in spite of himself. The words sounded like a warning, almost an
+insinuation.
+
+“What could the fellow mean?” he asked himself again and again. “Could
+he possibly have dreamed _that?_ No; it is preposterous. There was
+malice in his eye, and mischief.... Ellen married to Santley! Bah!
+what am I thinking about? The fellow is not a _prophet!_”
+
+In this manner, whether in innocence or for some set purpose of his
+own, Baptisto contrived to poison all the sweetness of that successful
+experiment. When Haldane again joined his wife that evening, he was
+taciturn, distraught, nervous, and irritable. All his buoyancy had
+departed. Ellen saw the change, and puzzled herself to account for it.
+
+She played to him, sang to him, but failed to drive the cloud from his
+brow.
+
+When she had retired for the night, he still sat pondering over
+Baptisto’s words.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXV. “BEWARE, MY LORD, OF JEALOUSY!”
+
+|If Baptisto’s object in describing a dream so ominous was to attract
+his master’s attention to the intimate relations between Mrs. Haldane
+and the clergyman, he certainly succeeded. Once assured in this
+direction, Haldane’s perceptions were keen enough. He noticed that
+the mere mention of Santley’s name filled Ellen with a sort of nervous
+constraint; that, although the clergyman’s visits were frequent,
+they were generally made at times when Haldane himself was busy and
+preoccupied--that is to say, during his well-known hours of work; and
+that, moreover, Santley, however much he liked the society of the
+lady, invariably avoided the husband, or, if they met, contrived to
+frame some excuse for speedy parting. Now, Haldane trusted his wife
+implicitly, and believed her incapable of any infidelity, even in
+thought. Still, he did not quite like the aspect of affairs. Much as
+he trusted his wife, he had a strong moral distrust for anything in
+the shape of a priest; and he determined, therefore, to keep his eyes
+upon the clergyman.
+
+A few days after that curious physiological experiment, he had the
+following conversation with Baptisto. It was the first day of the
+week.
+
+“Baptisto, I thought you were a good Catholic?”
+
+“So I am, senor,” returned the Spaniard, smiling.
+
+“Yet you went to an English church-yesterday, I hear?”
+
+“Yes, senor. I go there very often.”
+
+“Why, pray?”
+
+“Simply out of curiosity. Mr. Santley is a beautiful preacher, and has
+a silvery voice. While you were away, I went once, twice, three times.
+There is a young senora there who plays sweetly upon the great organ;
+I like to listen, to-watch the congregation.”
+
+“Humph! By-the-bye, Baptisto, I have been thinking over the dream of
+yours, when--when you were lying there.”
+
+“Yes, senor?”
+
+“Pray, what put such a foolish idea in your head?”
+
+“I cannot tell, senor; all I know is, it came. A foolish dream, do you
+say? I suppose it is because the clergyman was here so often, when you
+were away. And madame is so devout! I trust, senor, my dream has not
+given you offence; perhaps I was wrong to speak of it at all.”
+
+Haldanes face had gone black as a thunder-cloud. Placing his hand on
+the other’s shoulder, and looking firmly into his face, he said--
+
+“Listen to me, Baptisto.”
+
+“I am listening, senor.”
+
+“If I thought you would come back to life to tell lies about your
+mistress, I would have let you lie the other day and rot like a dead
+dog, rather than have recovered you at all. You hear? Take care! I
+know you do not love your mistress, but if you dare to whisper one
+word against her, I will drive you for ever from my door.”
+
+Baptisto bowed his head respectfully before the storm, but retained
+his usual composure.
+
+“Senor, may I speak?”
+
+“Yes; but again, take care!”
+
+“You should not blame me if I am jealous for your honour!”
+
+Haldane started, and uttered an expletive.
+
+“My honour, you dog? What do you mean?”
+
+“This, senor. I would rather die than give you offence; and as for
+the senora, I love her also, for is she not your wife? But will you be
+angry still, when I tell you, when I warn you, to beware of that man,
+that priest? He is a bad man, very bad. Ah, I have watched--and seen!”
+
+“What have you seen?” cried Haldane, clutching him by the arm. “Come,
+out with it!”
+
+“Enough to show me that he is not your friend--that he is dangerous.”
+
+“Bah! is that all? Now, listen to me, and be sure I mean what I say.
+I will have no servant of mine spying upon my wife. I will have no
+servant of mine insinuating that my honour is in danger. If I hear
+another word of this, if you convey to me by one look the fact that
+you are still prying, spying, and suspecting, I shall take you by the
+collar and send you flying out of my house. Now, go!”
+
+Baptisto, who knew his master’s temper perfectly, bowed and withdrew.
+He had no wish to say one word more. He had thrown out a dark hint, a
+black seed of suspicion, and he knew that he might safely let it work.
+It did work, rapidly and terribly. Left alone, Haldane became a prey
+to the wildest fears and suspicions. He remembered now that his wife
+had been acquainted with this man in her girlhood; that there had even
+been some passage of love between them. He remembered how eagerly
+she had renewed the acquaintance, and with what admiring zeal the
+clergyman had responded. He pictured to himself the sympathetic
+companionship, the zealous meetings, the daily religious intercourse,
+of these two young people, each full of the fervour of a blind
+superstition. Could it be possible that they loved each other?
+Questioning his memory, he recalled looks, words, tones, which,
+although scarcely noticed at the time, seemed now of painful
+significance. The mere thought was sickening. Already he realized the
+terrible phrase-of the poet Young--“the jealous are the damned.”
+
+Haldane was not habitually a violent man. Though passionate and
+headstrong by temperament, he had schooled himself to gentleness after
+a stormy youth, and the chilly waters of philosophy, at which he drank
+daily, kept his head cool and his pulses calm. But the stormy spirit,
+though hushed, was not altogether dead within him, and under his
+habitual reticence and good-humoured cynicism, there lay the most
+passionate idolatry for his beautiful wife. He had set her up in his
+heart of hearts, with a faith too perfect for much expression; and it
+had not occurred to him, in his remotest dreams, that any other man
+could ever come between them.
+
+And now, suddenly as a lightning flash illumining a dark landscape,
+the fear came upon him that perhaps he had been unwary and unwise. Was
+it possible, he asked himself, that he had’ been too studious and too
+book-loving, too reticent also in all those little attentions
+which by women, who always love sweetmeats, are so tenderly prized?
+Moreover, he was ten years his wife’s, elder--was that disparity of
+years also a barrier between their souls? No; he was sure it was not.
+He was sure that she was not hypocritical, and that she loved him.
+Wherever the blame might be, if blame there were, it was certainly not
+hers. She had been in all respects, a tender and a sympathetic wife;
+encouraging his deep study of science, even when she most distrusted
+its results; proud of his attainments, and eager for his success; in
+short, a perfect helpmate, but for her old-fashioned prejudices in
+the sphere of religion. Ah, _religion!_ There was the one word which
+solved the enigma, and aroused in our philosopher’s bosom that fierce
+indignation which long ago led Lucretius into such passionate hate
+against the Phantom,=
+
+```"Which with horrid head
+
+```Leered hideously from all the gates of heaven!”=
+
+It needed only this to complete his loathing for the popular theology,
+for all its teachers. Yes, he reflected, religion only was to blame.
+In its name, his wife’s sympathies had been tampered with, her spirit
+more or less turned against himself; in its name, his house had been
+secretly invaded, his domestic happiness poisoned, his peace of
+mind destroyed. It was the old story! Wherever this shadow of
+superstition crawled, craft and dissimulation began. Now, as in the
+beginning, it came between father and child, sister and brother, man
+and wife.
+
+It so happened that when George Haldane came forth from having his
+dark hour alone, he rather avoided meeting his wife at once, and,
+taking his hat, stepped out from the laboratory on to the shrubbery
+path. He had scarcely done so, when his eye fell upon two figures
+standing together in the distance, upon the terrace of the house. One
+was Mrs. Haldane, wearing her garden hat and a loose shawl thrown over
+her shoulders. The other was the clergyman of the parish.
+
+Haldane drew back, and watched. In that moment he knew the extent of
+his humiliation; for never before had he been a spy upon his wife’s
+actions.
+
+Their backs were towards him. Santley was talking eagerly; Ellen was
+looking down. Presently they began to move slowly along the terrace,
+side by side.
+
+Haldane watched them gloomily. The sunlight fell brightly upon them,
+and on the old Manor house, with its brilliant creepers and glittering
+panes, while the old chapel, with the watcher in its ruined porch,
+remained in shadow. It seemed like an omen. In the darkness of his
+hiding-place, Haldane felt satanic. Yes, there they walked--children
+of God, as they called themselves--in God’s sunlight; and he, the
+searcher for light, the unbeliever, was forgotten.
+
+Presently Santley paused again, and, with an impassioned gesture,
+pointed upward. Ellen raised her head, and looked upward too,
+listening eagerly to his words. Haldane laughed fiercely to himself,
+with all the ugliness of his jealousy upon him.
+
+Presently they disappeared into the house. A little afterwards Santley
+emerged from the front door, and came walking rapidly down the avenue.
+His manner was eager and happy, almost jubilant, and Haldane saw, when
+he approached, that his face looked positively radiant.
+
+He was passing, when Haldane stepped out and confronted him. He
+started, paused, and a shadow fell instantaneously upon his handsome
+face. Recovering himself, he held out his hand. Haldane did not seem
+to see the gesture, but, nodding a careless greeting, said, with his
+habitual _sang froid_--
+
+“Well met, Mr. Santley. Here I am again, you see, hard at work. Have
+you come from the house?”
+
+“Yes,” answered Santley.
+
+“On some new message of Christian charity and beneficence, I suppose?
+Ah, my dear sir, you are indefatigable. And the old women of the parish
+must indeed find you a Good Shepherd. Did you find my wife at home?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“And zealous, as usual, I suppose?’ Ah, what a thing it is to be
+pious! But let me beg you not to encourage her too much. Charity
+begins at home; and what with soup-kitchens, offertories,
+subscriptions for church repairs, and societies for the gratuitous
+distribution of flannel waistcoats, I am in a fair way of being
+ruined.”
+
+Santley forced a laugh.
+
+“Don’t be afraid. My errand to-day was not a begging one, I assure
+you.”
+
+“I am glad to hear it.”
+
+“I was merely bringing Mrs. Haldane a book I promised to lend her. To
+tell the truth, she finds your library rather destitute of works of a
+religious nature.”
+
+“Do you really think so?” exclaimed Haldane, drily. “Why, I thought
+it unusually well provided in that respect. Let me see! There are
+Volney’s ‘Ruins of Empire,’ Monboddo’s ‘Dissertations,’ Drummond’s
+‘Academical Questions,’ excellent translations of Schopenhauer and
+Hartmann, not to speak of thirty-six volumes of Diderot, and fifty of
+Arouet.”
+
+Santley opened his eyes in horror and astonishment.
+
+“Arouet!” he ejaculated. “Do you actually mean to call Voltaire a
+religious writer?”
+
+“Highly so. There is religion even in ‘La Pucelle,’ but it reaches its
+culmination in the ‘Philosophical Dictionary.’”
+
+“And you would actually let Mrs. Haldane read such works as those?”
+
+“Certainly; though, am sorry to say, she prefers ‘The Old Helmet’ and
+the ‘Heir of Redclyffe.’ May I ask the name of the work you have been
+good enough to lend her?”
+
+“It is a book from which I myself have received great benefit--Père
+Hyacinthes ‘Sermons.’”
+
+“Père Hyacinthe?” repeated Haldane. “Ah! the jolly priest who
+reverenced celibacy, and proclaimed himself the father of a strapping
+boy. Well, the man was at least honest. I think all clergymen should
+marry, and at as early an age as possible. What is your opinion?”
+
+Santley flushed to the temples, while Haldane watched him with a
+gloomy smile.
+
+“I think--I am sure,” he stammered, “that the married state is the
+happiest--perhaps the holiest.”
+
+“With these sentiments, of which I cordially approve, why the deuce
+are you a bachelor?”
+
+The clergyman winced at the question, and his colour deepened; then,
+as if musing, he glanced round towards the house--a look which was
+observed and fully appreciated by his tormentor.
+
+“I am sure my wife would encourage you to change your condition. Like
+most women, she is by instinct a matchmaker.”
+
+Santley did not seem to hear; at any rate, he made no reply, but,
+holding out his hand quickly, exclaimed--
+
+“I must go now. I am rather in haste.”
+
+Haldane did not take the hand, but put his arm upon the clergyman’s
+shoulder.
+
+“Well, good day,” he said. “Take my advice, though, and get a sensible
+wife as soon as possible.”
+
+Santley tried to smile, but only succeeded in looking more pale and
+nervous than usual. With a few murmured words of adieu, he moved
+rapidly away.
+
+Haldane watched him thoughtfully until he disappeared down the avenue.
+
+“I wonder if that man can smile?” he said to himself. “No; I am afraid
+he is too horribly in earnest. I suppose, the women would call
+him handsome--_spiritual_; but I hate such pallid, waxen-featured,
+handsome dolls. A pretty shepherd, that, for a Christian flock to
+follow; a fellow who makes his very ignorance of this world constitute
+his claim to act as cicerone to the next. Fancy being jealous,
+actually _jealous_, of such a thing as that!”
+
+He turned back into his laboratory and tried to dismiss Baptisto’s
+suggestion from his mind; but it was impossible. He could not disguise
+from himself that Santley, with his seraphic face and sad, earnest
+eyes, was the kind of creature whom the weaker sex adore, and that he
+was rendered doubly dangerous to women by the radiant mesmerism of a
+fascinating and voluptuous celestial superstition.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVI. FIRST LEAVES FROM A PHILOSOPHER NOTE-BOOK.
+
+|I am about to set down, in as concise a manner as possible, and at
+present solely for my private edification (some day, perhaps, another
+eye may read the lines, but not yet), certain events which have
+lately influenced my domestic life. Were it not that even a professed
+scientist might decline to publish experiments affecting his own
+private happiness, the description of the events to which I allude
+might almost form a chapter in my slowly progressing “Physiology of
+Ethics,” and the description would be at least as interesting as
+many of Ferriers accounts of vivisection on dumb animals. But,
+unfortunately, I am unable, in this case, to apply the dissecting
+knife to my neighbours heart, without laying bare the ugly wound in my
+own.
+
+To begin then, I, George Haldane, recluse, pessimist, moral
+physiologist, and would-be moral philosopher, have discovered, at
+forty years of age, that I am capable of the most miserable of all
+human passions; worse, that this said ignoble passion of jealousy has
+a certain rational foundation. For ten years I have been happy with
+a wife who seemed the perfection of human gentleness and beauty; who,
+although unfortunately we have been blest with no offspring, has shown
+the tenderest solicitude and sympathy for the children of my brain;
+and who, in her wifely faith and sanctity, seemed to be the sole link
+still holding me to a church whose history has always filled me with
+abhorrence, and a religion whose infantine theology I despise. Well,
+_nous avons changé tout cela_. My mind is no longer peaceful, my
+hearth no longer sacred; and the woman I love seems slowly drifting
+from me on a stream of sensuous spiritualism--another name for a
+religious rehabilitation of the flesh.
+
+If any other man were the victim, I should think the situation highly
+absurd. Here, on the one hand, is a fanatical Protestant priest, with
+the face of a seraphic monk, the experience of a schoolgirl, and the
+_gaucherie_ of a country chorister who has never grown a beard; a
+fellow whose sole claims to notice are his white hands, his clean
+linen, and his function as a silly shepherd; a man fresh from college,
+ignorant of the world. Here, on the other hand, am I, physically and
+intellectually his master, knowing almost every creed beneath the
+sun, and the slave of none; indifferent to vulgar human passions, and
+disposed to disintegrate them one and all with the electric current of
+a negative philosophy. Between us both, trembling this way and that,
+is that fair thing of flesh and blood, my wife, zealous to save her
+own soul alive, and fearful at times, I fancy, that I have sold mine
+to the Prince of Darkness. It is another version of science against
+superstition, common sense against a lie; and Ellen Haldane is the
+prize. A fiery Spaniard, like Baptisto yonder, would end the affair
+with a stiletto-thrust; but I, of colder blood, am not likely to do
+anything so courageous or so foolish, but am content to watch and
+watch, and to feel the sick contamination of my suspicion creeping
+over me like an unwholesome mildew. A stiletto thrust? Why, the mere
+tongue, a less fatal weapon, would do it all. If I could only summon
+up the courage to say to my wife, “I know your secret; choose between
+this man and me, between his creed and mine, between your duty as a
+wife and your zeal as a Christian,” I fancy there would be an end
+to it all. But I am too timorous; I suppose, too ashamed of my
+suspicions, too proud to acknowledge so contemptible a rival. As
+a Spaniard covers his face with his mantle, I veil my soul with my
+pride; and, under the mantle of unsuspicion, rest irresolute, while
+the thing grows.
+
+Once or twice, I have thought of another way--of taking my wife by the
+hand and saying, “To-morrow, my dear, we shall leave this place, and
+return to Spain or Italy--some quiet place abroad.” I could easily
+find an excuse for the migration, which, once effected, would make an
+end of the affair. But that, in my opinion, would be too cowardly. It
+would, indeed, be an admission that the danger was real and imminent;
+that, in other words, the fight for honour could only be saved by an
+ignominious retreat. No; Ellen Haldane must take her chance. If she is
+not strong enough to hold out against evil, then let her go--_au bon
+Dieu_ or _au bon diable_, as either leads.
+
+Yet what am I saying? It is precisely because I have the utmost
+faith in her purity of heart that I watch the struggle with a certain
+patience. I believe there will be a victim, but not my Ellen. Surely,
+if there is a good woman in the world, she is that woman. As for the
+other, every day, every hour, brings the cackling creature further
+and further into my decoy. Even if he tried to turn back now, I do
+not think I should let him. No; let him swim in and on, and in and on,
+till he reaches the place where I, like the decoy man, can catch him
+fluttering, and--wring his neck? Perhaps.
+
+It is quite clear that the man takes me for an idiot. At first he used
+precautions, invented subterfuges; latterly, certain of my stupidity
+or indifference, he comes and goes without disguise. When I meet him
+driving side by side of my wife in the phaeton, on some pretended
+errand of mercy, he gives me a careless bow, a nod. As he goes by my
+den, on his way to invite her out to visit his sister or his church,
+he makes no excuse, but passes jauntily, with a conversational pat for
+the stupid watch-dog: that is all. It would be amusing, I say, if it
+were not almost insufferable.
+
+This afternoon, as Ellen was going out, I blankly suggested that she
+should stay at home.
+
+“But you are busy,” she said--“always busy with your books and
+experiments.”
+
+“Not too busy, my dear Nell, for a _tête-à-tête_ with you. Where are
+you going? To the Vicarage?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“To see the parson, or his sister?”
+
+“Both. We have a great deal to discuss, about the designs for the new
+stained-glass windows, which have just come from London.”
+
+“Very interesting; but they will keep for a day. I fancy I could show
+you something quite as interesting, in my laboratory.”
+
+“I hate the laboratory,” she cried, “and those horrible experiments.”
+
+“My dear, you should not hate what your husband loves.”
+
+“I don’t mean that I hate them, quite; but I think them so useless!”
+
+“More useless than stained-glass windows?”
+
+“It is certainly not useless to beautify the House of God. Oh, I do
+so wish you could feel as I do about these things! What is the world
+without them?”
+
+“Without stained-glass windows?” I suggested sarcastically.
+
+She flushed impatiently.
+
+“George, why have you such a dislike for religion? Why do you hate
+everything I love?”
+
+“Pardon me, my dear Nell, it was _you_, not I, that spoke of hating.
+Philosophers never hate.”
+
+“But you do worse; you despise it. Thank God we have no children. It
+would be horrible to tell them that their father forbade them to go to
+church, or pray!”
+
+It was like a stab into my heart of hearts, that cry of thanks to God.
+Despite myself, I lost my composure. She saw it instantly, and in the
+manner of her sex, encroached.
+
+“Oh, George, do try to think sometimes of these things, for my sake!
+You would be so much happier, you surely would have so much more
+blessing, if you sometimes prayed.”
+
+“How do you know that I do not pray?”
+
+“Because you do not believe.”
+
+“I do not believe precisely as your priest believes, that is all.”
+
+She looked at me eagerly; then, after a moments hesitation, cried--
+
+“George, if I asked a favour, would you grant it?”
+
+“Try.”
+
+“Let Mr. Santley come sometimes, and speak with you about God!”
+
+This was too much, almost, for even me to bear with equanimity. I am
+afraid I did not look particularly amiable as I answered, sharp and
+short, turning from her--
+
+“After all, I think you had better go and look at those designs.”
+
+“There, you are angry again!” she cried; and I knew by the sound of
+her voice that her throat was choked with tears. “You are always angry
+when I touch upon religion.”
+
+“You were not talking of religion,” I retorted; “you were talking of
+that man.”
+
+“Why do you dislike him so? Because he is a preacher of the Word?”
+
+“Because he is a canting hypocrite, like all his tribe,” I cried.
+
+She saw that I had lost my temper, as was inevitable, and, sighing
+deeply, moved to the door. I followed her with my eyes. I would have
+given the world to call her back; to clasp her in my arms; to tell her
+my aching fears; to promise her I would worship any God she choose, in
+any place, in any way, so long as she would only be true, and answer
+my eager impulse with a little love. But I was too proud for that.
+
+“Then you are going?” I said.
+
+She turned, looking at me very sadly.
+
+“Yes, if you do not mind.”
+
+I shrugged my shoulders, and after another sad, reproachful look,
+she left the room. A minute afterwards, she drove her ponies past the
+window, without looking up.
+
+_Thursday, September_ 15.--A golden autumn day, so warm and still
+that it reminded me of the Indian summer. Not a leaf stirred, but the
+insects in the air were like floating blossoms, and seemed to sleep
+upon their wings. Even all round my den the shadows were sultry, and
+intertangled with slumberous shafts of light.
+
+This fine weather rather disappointed me, for I had arranged for
+a day’s recreation. In my youth, before I was caught myself in the
+tedious snares of speculation, I used to be an ardent fisherman, and
+I still retain sufficient knowledge of the gentle craft to cast a fly
+tolerably. So, tired of work, and a little weary of my own thoughts, I
+determined, for the first time, to take advantage of the permission my
+neighbour, Lord --------, has given me, and spend a day upon the river
+banks.
+
+Despite the sunshine, and the absence of even a breath of wind, I
+shouldered my basket, lifted my rod, and set off. Ellen was already
+out and about; so I did not see her before I started. Taking a short
+cut through the shrubberies, I soon came to the banks of the Emmet--as
+pretty a little stream as ever rippled over golden sands, or reached
+out an azure arm to turn some merry watermill. Arrived there, I soon
+saw that it would be useless to try a cast till there was a little
+wind; so, without putting my rod together, I strolled on along the
+river-side, till I was several miles away from the Manor house.
+
+The stream was rather low, but here and there were good deep pools,
+but so calm, so sunny, that every overhanging tree, every finger of
+fern, every blade of grass, was reflected in them as in a mirror.
+Still, as the time was, the waters were full of life. Over the pools
+hung clusters of flies like glittering spiders’ webs, scarcely moving
+in the sunshine; and when, from time to time, a trout rose, he leaped
+a full foot into the golden air above him, and sank back to coolness
+beneath an ever-widening ring of light. Sometimes from the grassy edge
+of the bank a water-rat would slip, swimming rapidly across, with his
+nose just lifted above the water, and his tail leaving a thin, bright
+trail. Water-ouzels rose at every curve, following swiftly the winding
+of the stream; and twice past my feet flashed a kingfisher, like an
+azure ray.
+
+The way lay sometimes through deep grassy meadows, sometimes by
+the sides of corn-fields where the sheaves were already slanted,
+oftentimes through thick shrubberies and woods already yellow with
+the withering leaf. From time to time I passed a farm, with orchards
+sloping down to the very water’s edge, or pastures slanting down to
+shallows where the cattle waded, breaking the water to silver streaks
+and whisking their tails against the clustering swarms of gnats. It
+was very pleasant and very still, but, from a fishing point of view,
+exceedingly absurd.
+
+By-and-by, however, a faint breeze began to touch the pools, and
+putting my rod together, and selecting my finest casting-line and two
+tiny flies, I tried a cast. Fortunately the wind was blowing
+sunward, and as I faced the light, the shadow fell behind me; but,
+nevertheless, the shadow of my rod flitted about at every cast, and
+threatened to spoil my sport. My first catch was an innocent baby-fish
+as big as my thumb, who came at the fly with a rush, and fought
+desperately when hooked. When I had disengaged him, and put him back
+into the water, he simply gave a flip of his little tail, and sailed
+contemptuously and quite leisurely out of sight, making me call to
+mind, with unusual humiliation, the well-known definition which Dr.
+Johnson gave of angling--“a fish at one end of the line, and a fool at
+the other,” I had tried a good many, casts before I took my first
+respectable fish--a trout of about half a pound. I caught him in a nice
+broken bit of water, just below a quaint old water-mill; and just as I
+put him into the basket, the portly miller came out to the granary
+door, and looked at me with a dusty smile. He evidently thought me a
+lunatic, to be out with a fishing-rod on such a day.
+
+Half a mile further on I landed another glittering picture of at least
+a quarter of a pound; after that, another of half a pound; then my
+luck ceased, the wind fell, and it was full sunshine. By this time I
+had wandered a good many miles from home, and reached the spot where
+the river plunges into the Great Omberley woods. Here the stream was
+so rapid and the boughs so thick, that it was useless to think of
+casting; so I put up my rod, and, leaping over a fence, rambled away
+into the woods.
+
+How strange and dark and still it was, passing out of the sunshine
+into those shadows, deep and cool as the bottom of the sea! The oak
+trees stretched their gnarled boughs into the air, and all around them
+were the lesser trees of the wood-willow, elder, blackthorn, ash, and
+hazel. The ground beneath was carpeted with moss and grass as thick
+and soft as velvet, with thick clusters of fern and bluebells round
+the tree roots, and creepers dangling from every bough. And the wood,
+like the river, was all alive! Conies tumbled across the patches of
+light, and flitted in the shadow, like very elves of the woodland;
+squirrels ran up the gnarled tree trunks; harmless silver snakes
+glided along the moss; but here and there, swift and ominous, ran a
+weazel, darting its head this way and that, and fiercely scenting the
+air, in one eternal glitter and hurry of bloodthirsty emotion. Thrush,
+blackbird, finch, birds without number, sang overhead; save when the
+shadow of the wind-hover or the sparrow-hawk passed across the topmost
+branches, when there was a sudden and respectful silence, to be
+followed by a precipitate hurry of exultation, as the enemy passed
+away.
+
+If I had been a moralist, I might have seen in this wood a microcosm
+of the world, with its abundant happiness, its beauty, and its dark
+spots of moral ugliness and cruelty. In you, Signor Weazel (who
+came so near that I touched you with my rod, which you snapped at
+ferociously, before bolting swiftly into the deep grass), I might
+have seen the likeness of a certain sleek creature of my own sex and
+species, who dwells not very far away. Nevertheless, I let you go in
+peace; which was no mercy to the conies, I suppose.
+
+So I entered the Forest Primaeval--or such it seemed to me, as the
+blaze of sunshine faded, the boughs thickened, the air became full of
+dark shadows and ominous silence. My steps were now deep in grass and
+fern, and the scent of flowers and weeds was thick in my nostrils,
+but I chose a path where the boughs were thinnest, and quietly pushed
+through. While thus I rambled, I suppose that I fell, philosopher
+like, into a dream; at any rate, I seemed to lose all count of time.=
+
+```"The world, the life of men, dissolved away
+
+```Into a sense of dimness,"=
+
+as some poet sings. I felt primaeval--archetypal so to speak, till a
+sudden’ shifting of the vegetable kaleidoscope recalled from thoughts
+of Plato and the Archetype to a cruel consciousness of self.
+
+I was moving slowly on, when I heard the sound of voices quite close
+to me. I paused, listening, and only just in time, for in another
+moment I should have been visible to the speakers. Well shrouded in
+deep foliage, I looked out to discover what sylvan creatures were
+disporting themselves in that lonely place; and I saw--what shall I
+say? A nymph and a satyr? a dryad and a goatfooted Faun?
+
+Just beyond me, there was a broad-green road through the woodland,
+deeply carpeted with soft grass, but marked here and there with the
+broad track of a wood-waggon; and on the side of this solitary road,
+on a rude seat fashioned of two oaken stumps and a rough plank, the
+nymph was sitting. She wore a light dress of some soft material,
+a straw hat, a country cloak, and gloves of Paris kid--a civilized
+nymph, as you perceive! To complete her modern appearance, she carried
+a closed parasol, and a roll which looked like music.
+
+How pretty she looked, with the warm light playing upon her delicate
+features, and suffusing her form in its delicate drapery; with the
+semi-transparent branches behind her, and flowers of the woodland at
+her feet!
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVII. THE NOTE-BOOK CONTINUED NYMPH AND SATYR.
+
+|And the satyr? Ah! I knew him at a glance, despite the elegant modern
+boots used to disguise the cloven foot.
+
+He wore black broadcloth and snowy linen, too, and a broad-brimmed
+clerical hat. His face was seraphically pale, but I saw (or fancied
+I saw) the twinkle of the hairy ears of the ignoble, sensual,
+nymph-compelling, naiad-pursuing breed.
+
+He was talking earnestly, with gestures of eager entreaty; for the
+nymph was crying, and he was offering her some kind of consolation.
+
+Presently he sat down by her side, and threw his arms around her. She
+disengaged herself from his embrace, and rose trembling to her feet.
+
+“Don’t touch me!” she cried. “That is all over now. I cannot bear it!”
+
+He rose also, and stood regarding her, not with the rapturous eyes’
+of a lover, but with a dark and gloomy gaze. Then he said, in a low
+voice, something which I could not catch. But I heard her passionate
+reply.
+
+“No, it is all over,” she cried; “and I shall never be at peace again.
+Even, if you kept your word, it would be the same. You do not love me;
+you never loved me--never!”
+
+I crept a little closer, for I was anxious to hear his answer.
+
+“I do love you, Edith; and after what has passed between us----”
+
+She shrank away with a faint, despairing cry, and put her hand to her
+face.
+
+“After what has passed between us, do you think that my love can
+change? But you are unjust to me, to yourself; too violent and too
+hard to please. I do not like to be suspected, to be watched; and it
+is painful to me, very painful, to be constantly called to an account
+by you. It is not reasonable. Even as your husband, I would not bear
+it; it would poison the peace between us, and convert our married life
+into a simple hell!”
+
+He paused; but her only answer was a sob of pain. So he sermonized on:
+
+“Between man and woman, Edith, there should be solemn confidence and
+trust. When that ceases, love is sure to cease. Why, look at me! My
+trust in you is so absolute that no action of yours could shake it;
+no matter how peculiar were the circumstances, I should be certain of
+your faith, your goodness. That is true love--absolute, implicit faith
+in the beloved object. I wish I could persuade you to imitate it.”
+
+“You know that you can trust me,” sobbed the poor child, “because I
+have: _proved_ my love.”
+
+“Have I not proved mine?” he cried, with irritation. “Have I not made
+sacrifice upon sacrifice for your sake? Have I not remained here, in
+this wretched country place, when I could have been promoted to other
+and greater spheres of action? Have I not made you my companion, my
+confidante, my nearest and dearest friend? Edith, why do you persist
+in such accusations? What must I do to signify our attachment? Shall I
+marry you at once? Speak the word, and although, as you know, it would
+involve the ruin of all my worldly projects, I will do as you desire.”
+
+I had-heard enough to convince me that the affair under discussion
+was no affair of mine, and that I had no right to continue playing the
+spy; so I was drawing back as gently as possible, and about to return
+the way I came, when I was suddenly arrested by the next words spoken.
+
+“Give up Mrs. Haldane!”
+
+I The nymph was the speaker. She stood with her wild eyes fixed upon
+the other’s face, which did not improve in beauty of expression. For
+myself, I started, stung to the quick; then I returned, trembling, to
+my place of espionage.
+
+“Give up Mrs. Haldane!” repeated the girl. “I ask nothing more than
+that. I will not force you to marry me, Charles, till it is for your
+good; indeed, if I did, I know that we should be unhappy, and that you
+would never forgive me. But you can at least cease to be so familiar
+with Mrs. Haldane.”
+
+He had discovered by this time, I suppose, that the pleading mood
+availed him little; at all events, he suddenly changed his tone, and
+with a cry of angry indignation, he exclaimed--
+
+“Edith, take care! I have told you that I will not suffer it! How dare
+you suspect that lady! How dare you!”
+
+And he stood towering over her (the satyr!) in the fulness of his
+snowy shirtfront and the whiteness of his moral indignation.
+
+“It is no use being angry,” she returned, with a certain stubbornness,
+though I could see that she was cowed, in the manner of gentle women,
+by his violent physical passion. “After what you have told me, after
+what I have seen----”
+
+“Edith, again, take care!”
+
+“You are always with her,” she continued, “night-time and day-time. I
+am amazed that Mr. Haldane does not notice it. It is the talk of the
+place.”
+
+With another exclamation, he turned his back and walked rapidly away.
+
+“Come back!” she cried hysterically. “If you leave like that, I will
+drown myself in the river.”
+
+He returned and faced her.
+
+“You will drive me mad!” he said. “I am sick of it. I am more like a
+slave than a free man. You will not suffer me even to have a friend.”
+
+“She is more than a friend. You have told me yourself, that you loved
+her.”
+
+“And so I did,” he answered, “though of course she is nothing to me
+_now_.”
+
+“Why are you always with her?”
+
+“I am interested in her, deeply interested. She is unhappy with her
+husband, and as a minister of the gospel----”
+
+With her tearful, truthful eyes, fixed so earnestly upon him, no
+wonder he paused and blushed.
+
+“Charles, do not be a hypocrite! At least be honest. She is more to
+you than a friend.”
+
+He raised his hands heavenward, in pulpit fashion, and protested.
+
+“Edith, I swear to you before God, that there is nothing whatever
+between us. She is a stainless lady, her husband does not understand
+her, I am her spiritual friend and guide.”
+
+“Yes, Charles; I understand,” she said, still earnestly watching him.
+“_Justus you were mine!_”
+
+I think it worth while to put that little sentence in italics. It was
+a home stroke, and took away the satyr’s breath.
+
+“Edith, for shame!” he cried. “You know you do not mean what you say.
+If I thought you meant it, I should break with you for ever. I
+tell you again, Mrs. Haldane is above reproach, and it is simply
+disgraceful to couple her name, in such a manner, with mine. And you
+would infer, now, that I have influenced your own life for evil;
+you would mock at my spiritual pretensions, and brand me as a base,
+unworthy creature. Well, Edith, perhaps you are right. Perhaps I have
+given you cause. I have shown you that I love you, beyond position,
+beyond the world, beyond even my own self-respect, and this is my
+return.”
+
+I could have sprung out and strangled the fellow, he was so cruel
+and yet so plausible, so superbly selfish and yet so completely
+self-deceiving; and I saw that with every word he uttered he gained a
+fresh hold over the heart of the pretty fool who was listening. While
+he spoke, she sobbed as if her little heart was ready to break; and
+when he ceased, she eagerly held out her arms.
+
+“Oh, Charles, don’t say that! Don’t say that my love has been a curse
+to you!”
+
+“You drive me to say it,” he answered moodily; “you make me miserable
+with your jealousy, your suspicion.”
+
+“Don’t say that I make you miserable--don’t!” she sobbed.
+
+“You used to be so different,” he continued, still preserving his tone
+of moral injury; “you used to be so interested in my work, my daily
+duties. Now, you do nothing but reproach me; and why? Because I have
+found an old friend, who happens to be of your own sex, but who is far
+above the folly of a meaningless flirtation, and who little deserves
+the cruel slur you cast upon her. Am I, then, to have no friends, no
+acquaintances? Is every step I take to be measured by the unreasoning
+suspicion of a jealous woman?”
+
+By this time she had put her arms about his neck, and was sobbing on
+his breast.
+
+“Oh, Charles, don’t be so hard with me! It is all because I love
+you--ah, so much!”
+
+“But you should conquer these wicked feelings----”
+
+“I try! I try!”
+
+“You should have more confidence, more faith. You know how much I
+care for you.”
+
+“Yes; but sometimes I feel afraid. Mrs. Haldane is so much cleverer,
+so much more beautiful, than I am, and she was your first love. They
+say men never love twice.”
+
+“That is nonsense, Edith.”
+
+“But you do love me, dear? you do?”
+
+Ugh, the satyr! He answered her with kisses, straining her to his
+heart and she, sobbing and clinging round him, was quite conquered.
+I felt sick to see her at his mercy. Then their voices sank, and he
+whispered, and I saw the bright blood mount to her cheek and brow.
+But, alas! she did not shrink away any more.
+
+Then whispering and kissing, with eyes of passion fixed upon one
+another, they moved away, taking a lonely path into the woods beyond
+me. My first impulse was to follow them, and to tear them asunder.
+But after all, I reflected it was no affair of mine, and I knew now,
+moreover, that nothing in the world would save her from him--or from
+herself. .
+
+
+END OF VOL. II.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Foxglove Manor, Volume II (of III), by
+Robert W. Buchanan
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 48472 ***
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-Project Gutenberg's Foxglove Manor, Volume II (of III), by Robert W. Buchanan

-

-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most

-other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions

-whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of

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-to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.

-

-

-

-Title: Foxglove Manor, Volume II (of III)

-       A Novel

-

-Author: Robert W. Buchanan

-

-Release Date: March 12, 2015 [EBook #48472]

-Last Updated: November 2, 2016

-

-Language: English

-

-Character set encoding: UTF-8

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-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOXGLOVE MANOR, VOLUME II (OF III) ***

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-Produced by David Widger from page images generously

-provided by the Internet Archive

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-</pre>

-

-    <div style="height: 8em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h1>

-      FOXGLOVE MANOR

-    </h1>

-    <h3>

-      A Novel

-    </h3>

-    <h2>

-      By Robert W. Buchanan

-    </h2>

-    <h4>

-      In Three Volumes, Vol. II.

-    </h4>

-    <h5>

-      London <br /> Chatto And Windos, Piccadilly <br /> 1884

-    </h5>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <b>CONTENTS</b>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>FOXGLOVE MANOR</b>. </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER XIV. BAPTISTO STAYS AT HOME. </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER XV. CONJURATION. </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER XVI. AT THE OPERA. </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER XVII. WALTER HETHERINGTON. </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER XVIII. CHURCH BELLS&mdash;AND A DISCORD.

-      </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER XIX. HE IS BUT A LANDSCAPE PAINTER </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER XX. IN THE GLOAMING. </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER XXI. IN THE VICARAGE PARLOUR. </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER XXII. AT THE VICARAGE. </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER XXIII. DR. DUPRÉ&rsquo;S ELIXIR. </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XXIV. THE EXPERIMENT. </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XXV. &ldquo;BEWARE, MY LORD, OF JEALOUSY!&rdquo; </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XXVI. FIRST LEAVES FROM A PHILOSOPHER

-      NOTE-BOOK. </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XXVII. THE NOTE-BOOK CONTINUED NYMPH AND

-      SATYR. </a>

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      FOXGLOVE MANOR.

-    </h2>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XIV. BAPTISTO STAYS AT HOME.

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>s Haldane sat in

-      his study, the evening previous to the morning fixed for his journey to

-      London, Baptisto entered quickly and stood before the desk at which his

-      master was busily writing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Can I speak to you, senor?&rdquo; Haldane looked and nodded.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What is it, Baptisto?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You have arranged that I shall go with you to-morrow, but I have had

-      during the last few days an attack of my old vertigo. Can you possibly

-      dispense with my attendance, senor?&rdquo; Haldane stared in surprise at the

-      Spaniards face, which was inscrutable as usual.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Do you mean to say you wish to remain at home?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Certainly, senor.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why? because you are ill? On the contrary, you look in excellent health.

-      No; it is impossible. I cannot get along without you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      And Haldane returned to his papers as if the matter was ended.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Baptisto, however, did not budge, but remained in the same position, with

-      his dark eyes fixed upon his master.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Do me this favour, senor. I am really indisposed, and must beg to

-      remain.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane laughed, for an idea suddenly occurred to him which seemed to

-      explain the mystery of his servant&rsquo;s request.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My good Baptisto, I think I understand the cause of your complaint, and I

-      am sure a little travel will do you good. It is that dark-eyed widow of

-      the lodge-keeper who attaches you so much to the Manor. The warm blood of

-      Spain still burns in your veins, and, despite your sad experience of

-      women, you are still impressionable. Eh? am I right?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Baptisto quickly shook his head, with the least suspicion of a smile upon

-      his swarthy face.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am not impressionable, senor, and I do not admire your English women;

-      but I wish to remain all the same.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Nonsense!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Nonsense! In serious lament, senor, I beseech you to allow me to remain.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      But Haldane was not to be persuaded at what he conceived to be a mere whim

-      of his servant. He still believed that Baptisto had fallen a captive to

-      the charms of Mrs. Feme, a little plump, dark-eyed woman, with a large

-      family. He had frequently of late seen the Spaniard hanging about the

-      lodge&mdash;on one occasion nursing and dandling the youngest child&mdash;and

-      he had smiled to himself, thinking that the poor fellow&rsquo;s misanthropy, or

-      rather his misogynism, was in a fair way of coming to an end.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Finding his master indisposed to take his request seriously, Baptisto

-      retired; and presently Haldane strolled into the drawing-room, where he

-      found his wife.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Have you heard of the last freak of Baptisto? He actually wants to remain

-      at ease, instead of accompanying me in my journey.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Ellen looked up from some embroidery, in which she was busily engaged.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;On no account!&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;If you don&rsquo;t take him with you, I. shall

-      not stay in the place.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Dear me! said the philosopher. Surely you are not afraid of poor

-      Baptisto!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not afraid of him exactly, but he makes me shiver. He comes and goes like

-      a ghost, and when you least expect him, he is at your elbow. Then, of

-      course, I cannot help remembering he has committed a murder!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Nothing of the kind,&rdquo; said Haldane, laughing and throwing himself into a

-      chair. &ldquo;My dear Ellen, you don&rsquo;t believe the whole truth of that affair.

-      True, he surprised that Spanish wife of his with her gallant, whom he

-      stabbed; but I have it on excellent authority that it was a kind of

-      duello; the other man was armed, and so it was a fair fight.&rdquo; Ellen

-      shuddered, and showed more nervous agitation than her husband could quite

-      account for.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Take him away with you,&rdquo; she cried; &ldquo;take him away. If you never bring

-      him back, I shall rejoice. If I had been consulted, he would never have

-      been brought to England.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      A little later in the evening, when Haldane had returned to his papers,

-      which he was diligently finishing to take away with him, he rang and

-      summoned the Spaniard to his presence.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well, it is all settled. I have consulted your mistress, and she insists

-      in your accompanying me to-morrow.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      A sharp flash came upon Baptisto&rsquo;s dark eyes. He made an angry gesture;

-      then controlling himself, he said in a low, emphatic voice&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;The <i>senora</i> means it? <i>She</i> does not wish me to remain?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Just so.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;May I ask why?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Only because she does not want you, and I do. Between ourselves, she is

-      not quite so certain of you as I am. She has never forgotten that little

-      affair in Spain.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Again the dark eyes flashed, and again there was the same angry gesture,

-      instantly checked.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane continued.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You are violent sometimes, my Baptisto, and madame is a little afraid of

-      you. When she knows you better, as I know you, she will be aware that you

-      are rational; at present&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;At present, senor,&rdquo; said Baptisto, &ldquo;she would rather not have me so near.

-      Ah, I can understand! Perhaps she has reason to be afraid.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Something in the man&rsquo;s manner, which was sinister and almost threatening,

-      jarred upon his master&rsquo;s mind. Rising from his chair, Haldane stood with

-      his back to the fire, and, with a frown, regarded the Spaniard, as, he

-      said&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Listen to me, Baptisto. I have noticed with great annoyance, especially

-      of late, that your manner to madame has been strange, not to say sullen.

-      You are whimsical still, and apt to take offence. If this goes on, if you

-      fail in respect to your mistress, and make your presence uncomfortable in

-      this house, we shall have to part.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      To Haldane&rsquo;s astonishment, Baptisto asked an explanation, and, falling on

-      his knees, seized his master&rsquo;s hand and kissed it eagerly, &ldquo;Senor! Senor!

-      you don&rsquo;t comprehend. You don&rsquo;t think I am ungrateful, that I do not

-      remember? But you are wrong. I would die to save you&mdash;yes, I would

-      die; and I would kill with my own hand any one who did you an injury. I am

-      your servant, your slave&mdash;ah yes, till death.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Come, get up, and go and finish packing my things.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But, senor&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Get up, I say.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The Spaniard rose, and with folded hands and bent head stood waiting.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Get ready like a sensible fellow, and let us have no more of this

-      foolery. There, there, I understand. You are exciting yourself for

-      nothing.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then, I am to go, senor?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Certainly.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Early the next morning Baptisto entered the carriage with his master, and

-      was driven to the railway station, some seven miles away. As they went

-      along, Haldane noticed that the man looked very ill, and that from time to

-      time he put his hand to his head as if in pain. At the railway station,

-      while they were waiting for the train, matters looked most serious.

-      Suddenly the Spaniard fell forward on the platform as if in strong

-      convulsions, his eyes starting out of his head, his mouth foaming. They

-      sprinkled water on his face, chafed his hands, and with some difficulty

-      brought him round.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;The devil!&rdquo; muttered Haldane to himself. &ldquo;It looks like epilepsy!&rdquo;

-       Baptisto was placed on a seat, and lay back ghastly pale, as if utterly

-      exhausted.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Are you better now?&rdquo; asked Haldane, bending over him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;A little better, senor.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      But seeing him so utterly helpless, and likely to have other seizure,

-      Haldane rapidly calculated in his own mind the inexpediency of taking him

-      away on a long railway journey. After all, the poor fellow had not

-      exaggerated his condition, when he had pleaded illness as an excuse for

-      remaining at home.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;After all,&rdquo; said Haldane, &ldquo;I think you will have to remain behind.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Baptisto opened his eyes feebly, and stretched out his hands.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, senor; since you wish it, I will go.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You shall remain,&rdquo; answered Haldane, just as the whistle of the coming

-      train was heard in the distance. &ldquo;Perhaps, if you are better in a day or

-      two, you can follow; but you will go away now in the carriage, and send

-      over to Dr. Spruce, and he will prescribe for you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Baptisto did not answer, but, taking his masters hand, kissed it

-      gratefully. The train came up. Haldane entered a carriage, and, gazing

-      from the window as the train began to move on, saw Baptisto still seated

-      on the platform, very pale, his eyes half closed, his head recumbent. Near

-      him stood the station master, a railway porter, and the groom who had

-      driven them over from the Manor, all regarding him with languid curiosity.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      But the moment the train was gone, Baptisto began to recover. Rising to

-      his feet, and refusing all offers of assistance from the others, he

-      strolled out of the station, and quietly mounted the dog-cart. The groom

-      got up beside him, and they drove homeward through the green lanes.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Now, Baptisto was a gentleman, and seldom entered or tolerated familiarity

-      from his fellow-servants. Had it been otherwise, the groom might have

-      asked the explanation of his curious conduct; for no sooner was he mounted

-      on the dogcart, and driving along in the fresh air, than the Spaniard

-      seemed to forget all about his recent illness, sat erect like a man in

-      perfect health, and exhibited none of the curious symptoms which had so

-      alarmed his master.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      And when the groom, who was a thirsty individual, suggested that they

-      should make a detour and call at the Blue Boar Inn for a little stimulant,

-      chiefly as a corrective to the attack from which his companion had just

-      suffered, the Spaniard turned his dark eyes round about him and actually

-      winked. This proceeding so startled the groom that he almost dropped the

-      reins, for never in the whole course of his sojourn had the foreign gent

-      condescended to such a familiarity.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      They drove round to the Blue Boar, however, and the groom consumed the

-      brandy, while Baptisto, who was a teetotaller, had some lemonade, and lit

-      his cigar. Then they drove home to the Manor, Baptisto sitting with folded

-      arms, completely and absolutely recovered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      About noon that day, as Mrs. Haldane moved about the conservatory, looking

-      after her roses, a servant announced the Rev. Mr. Santley. Ellen flushed,

-      a little startled at the announcement, coming so soon after her husband&rsquo;s

-      departure, and her first impulse was to deny herself; but before she could

-      do so the clergyman himself appeared at the door of the conservatory.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You are an early visitor,&rdquo; she said coldly, bending her face over the

-      flowers.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It is just noon,&rdquo; answered the clergyman, &ldquo;and I was going home from a

-      sick-call. Has Mr. Haldane gone?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes. Did you wish to see him?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not particularly, though I had a little commission which I might have

-      asked him to execute had I been in time.&rdquo; Surely the man&rsquo;s fall had

-      already begun. Ellen knew perfectly well that he was lying. In point of

-      fact, he had seen the dog-cart drive past on the way to the station, and

-      he had been unable to resist the temptation of coming over without delay.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      With face half averted, Ellen led the way into the drawing-room, and on to

-      the terrace beyond, from which there was a pleasant view of the Manor, the

-      plain, and the surrounding country. Just below the gardens were laid out

-      in flowerbeds and gravel walks; but the dark shrubberies were beyond, and

-      at a little distance, well in the shadow of the trees, the old chapel.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      There was a long silence. Ellen stood silent, gazing upon the woods and

-      lawn, while the clergyman stood just behind her, evidently regarding her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At last she could bear it no longer, but, turning quickly, exclaimed&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why did you come? Have you anything to say to me?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Nothing, Ellen, if you are angry,&rdquo; replied the clergyman.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Angry! You surely know best if I have cause. After what has passed, I

-      think it is better that we should not meet,&rdquo; she added in a low voice. &ldquo;At

-      least, not often.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He saw she was agitated, and he took a certain pleasure in her agitation,

-      for it showed him that she was not quite unsusceptible to the influence he

-      might bring to bear upon her. As he stood there, his sad eyes fixed upon

-      her, his being conscious of every movement she made, of every breath she

-      drew, he felt again the deep fatality of his passion, and silently yielded

-      to it.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      There was another long pause, which he was the first to break.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Do you know, Ellen, I sometimes tremble for you, when I think of your

-      husbands opinions. In time you may learn to share them, and then we should

-      be further apart than ever. At present, it is my sole comfort to know you

-      possess that living faith without which every soul is lost.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Lost?&rdquo; she repeated, in a bewildering way, not looking at him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t mean in the vulgar sense; the theological ideas of damnation have

-      never had my sanction, far less my sympathy. But materialism degrades the

-      believer, and sooner or later comes a disbelief in all that is holy,

-      beautiful, and sanctified. It is a humble creed, the new creed of science,

-      and fatal to spiritual hopes.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Does it matter so much what one believes, if one&rsquo;s life is good?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It matters so much that I would rather see one I loved dead before my

-      feet than an avowed unbeliever. But there, I have not come to preach to

-      you. When does Mr. Haldane return?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;As I told you: in a fortnight, perhaps sooner.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And during his absence we shall meet again, I hope?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She hesitated and looked at him. His eyes were fixed on the distant woods,

-      though he stood expectantly, as if awaiting her reply, which did not come.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Can you not trust me?&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;You know I am your friend?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I hope so; but I think it is best that you should not come here. If you

-      were married, it would be different.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I shall not marry,&rdquo; he replied impatiently. &ldquo;What then? I am a priest of

-      God, and you may trust me fully. If our Church commenced the confessional,

-      you might enter it without fear, and I&mdash;I would listen to the

-      outpourings of your heart. Should you in your grief be afraid to utter

-      them?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She moved away from him, turning her back; but betrayed herself. He saw

-      the bright colour mount to her neck and mantle there.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What nonsense you talk!&rdquo; she said presently, with a forced laugh. &ldquo;Are

-      you going over to Rome?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I might go over to the evil place itself, Ellen, if <i>you</i> were

-      there.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      There was no mistaking the words, the tone, in their diabolic gentleness,

-      their suavity of supreme and total self-surrender. She felt helpless in

-      spite of herself. The man was overmastering her, and rapidly encroaching.

-      She felt like a person morally stifled, and with a strong effort tried to

-      shake the evil influence away.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I was right,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;We must not meet.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He smiled sadly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;As you please. I will come, or I will go, at your will. You have only to

-      say to me, &lsquo;Go and destroy yourself, obliterate yourself for ever from my

-      life, blot yourself out from the roll of living beings,&rsquo; and I shall obey

-      you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her spirit revolted more and more against the steadfast, self-assured

-      obliquity of the man. She saw that he was desperate, and that the danger

-      grew with his desperation. In every word he spoke, and in his whole

-      manner, there was the sombre assurance of something between them, of some

-      veiled, but excitable sympathy, which she herself utterly ignored. That

-      moment of wild delirium, when he caught her in his arms and kissed her,

-      seemed, instead of severing them, to have made a link between them. He had

-      been conscious of her indignation, he had even professed penitence; but

-      she saw to her dismay that the fact of his folly filled him, not with

-      fear, but with courage. So she determined to end it once and for ever.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Let us understand each other,&rdquo; she said, trembling violently. &ldquo;How dare

-      you talk as if there was any community of feeling between us? How dare you

-      presume upon my patience, Mr. Santley? It is wretched; it is abominable!

-      When you talk of killing yourself, when you assume that I have any serious

-      interest in you, or any right over you, you insult me and degrade

-      yourself. We are nothing, and can be nothing to each other.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I know that,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;Do you think I am so mad as not to know that?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then why do you come here to torture me, and to tempt me?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The word came from her before she knew it, and her face became scarlet;

-      but he uttered no protest, and raised his white hand in deprecation.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Tempt you? God forbid!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I did not mean that,&rdquo; she murmured, in confusion; &ldquo;but you must know, you

-      cannot fail to know, that it is not right for a married woman to receive

-      such expressions of sympathy, however spiritual. It is that which makes me

-      hate the Catholic Church. The priest promises you his office, and too

-      often makes mischief under the guise of religion.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Do you accuse me of doing so?&rdquo; he demanded, in the same sad, calm voice.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No; but you should remember that you have not the custody of my soul, and

-      I have no right to influence your actions. Come,&rdquo; she continued, with

-      rather a forced laugh, &ldquo;talk to me like a true English clergyman. Tell me

-      of the old women of the village, and their ailments; ask me for a

-      subscription to give to your new soup kitchen; talk to me as if Mr.

-      Haldane were listening to us&mdash;of your schools, your parish troubles&mdash;and

-      you shall find me an eager listener!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I will talk of anything, Ellen, so long as I may talk to you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Again that manner of despairing certainty, of assured and fatal sympathy.

-      The man was incorrigible.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She waited impatiently for some minutes, but finding he did not speak

-      again, she held out her hand.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Since you have nothing more to tell me,&rdquo; she observed lightly, &ldquo;I think I

-      will say good morning. I am going to order the carriage and drive to

-      Omberley.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;When may I come again?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;When you have anything really parochial to say to me. Please go now.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Their eyes met, and hers sank beneath his own.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As he crossed towards the door it opened, and Baptisto appeared upon the

-      threshold.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Did you ring, senora?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      At the sight of the Spaniard&rsquo;s dull impressive face Mrs. Haldane started

-      violently, and went a little pale. She had heard nothing of his return,

-      and he came like an apparition.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Baptisto! What are you doing here? I thought&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She paused in wonder, while the Spaniard inclined his head and bowed

-      profoundly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I was taken with a vertigo at the station, and the senor permitted me to

-      return.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then your master has gone alone?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, senora.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Very well. Order the carriage at once. I am going out.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Baptisto bowed and retired, quickly closing the door.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Santley, who had stood listening during the above conversation, now

-      prepared to follow, but, glancing at Ellen, saw that she was unusually

-      agitated.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That is a sinister-looking fellow,&rdquo; he remarked. &ldquo;I am afraid he has

-      frightened you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Indeed, no,&rdquo; she replied; &ldquo;though I confess I was startled at his

-      unexpected return. Good-bye.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Good-bye,&rdquo; he said, again taking her hand and holding it up a moment in

-      his own.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Passing from the drawing-room, he again came face to face with Baptisto,

-      who was lurking in the lobby, but who drew aside with a respectful bow, to

-      allow the clergyman to pass.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He crossed the hall, descended the stone steps of the portico, and walked

-      slowly towards the lodge. As he passed the ruined chapel, its shadows

-      seemed to fall upon his spirit and leave it in ominous darkness. He

-      shivered slightly, and drew his cloak about him, then with his eyes cast

-      down he thoughtfully walked on.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He did not glance back. Had he done so, he would have seen Baptisto

-      standing on the steps of the Manor house, watching him with a sinister

-      smile.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XV. CONJURATION.

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was a chill day

-      in early autumn, and as Charles Santley passed along the dark avenue of

-      the Manor his path was strewn here and there with freshly fallen leaves.

-      Dark shadows lay on every side, and the heaven above was full of a sullen,

-      cheerless light. It was just the day for a modern Faust, in the course of

-      his noonday walk, to encounter, in some fancied guise, canine or human,

-      the evil one of old superstition.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Be that as it may, Santley knew at last that the hour of his temptation

-      was over, and that the evil one was not far away. He knew it, by the

-      sullen acquiescence of evil of his own soul; by the deliberate and

-      despairing precision with which he had chosen the easy and downward path;

-      by the sense of darkness which already obliterated the bright moral

-      instincts in his essentially religious mind. He had spoken the truth when

-      he said he would follow Ellen Haldane anywhere, even to the eternal pit

-      itself. Her beauty possessed him and disturbed him with the joy of impure

-      thoughts; and now that he perceived his own power to trouble her peace of

-      mind, he rejoiced at the strength of his passion with a truly diabolic

-      perversity.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As he came out of the lodge gate he saw, far away over the fields, the

-      spire of his own church.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He laughed to himself.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      But the man&rsquo;s faith in spiritual things, so far from being shaken, was as

-      strong as ever. His own sense of moral deterioration, of spiritual

-      backsliding, only made him believe all the more fervently in the heaven

-      from which he had fallen, or might choose to fall. For it is surely a

-      mistake to picture, as so many poets have pictured, the evil spirit as one

-      ignorant of or insensible to good. Far wiser is the theology which

-      describes Satan as the highest of angelic spirits&mdash;the spirit which,

-      above all others, had beheld and contemplated the Godhead, and had then,

-      in sheer revolt and negation, deliberately and advisedly decided its own

-      knowledge and rejected its own truthright. Santley was, in his basest

-      moods, essentially a godly man&mdash;a man strangely curious of the beauty

-      of goodness, and capable of infinite celestial dreams. If, like many

-      another, he confused the flesh and the spirit, he did no more than many

-      sons of Eve have done.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As he walked slowly along he mused, somewhat to this effect&mdash;&ldquo;I love

-      this woman. In her heart she loves me. Her superior spiritual endowments

-      are mystically alive to those I myself possess. Her husband is a clod, an

-      unbeliever, with no spiritual promptings. In his sardonic presence, her

-      aspirations are chilled, frozen at the very fountain-head; whereas, in

-      mine, all the sweetness and the power of her nature are aroused, though

-      with a certain irritation. If I persist, she must yield to the slow moral

-      mesmerism of my passion, and eventually fall. Is this necessarily evil? Am

-      I of set purpose sinning? Is it not possible that even a breach of the

-      moral law might, under certain conditions, lead us both to a higher

-      religious place&mdash;yes, even to a deeper and intenser consciousness of

-      God?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      And again&mdash;&ldquo;What <i>is</i> sin? Surely it is better than moral

-      stagnation, which is death. There are certain deflections from duty which,

-      like the side stroke of a bird&rsquo;s wing, may waft us higher. In the arms of

-      this woman, I should surely be nearer God than crawling alone on the bare

-      path of duty, loving nothing, hoping nothing, becoming nothing. What is it

-      that Goethe says of the Eternal Feminine which lead us ever upward and

-      onward? Which was the highest, Faust before he loved Marguerite, or Faust

-      after he passed out of the shadow of his sin into the sphere of imperial

-      and daring passion? I believe in God, I love this woman. Out of that

-      belief, and that love, shall I not become a living soul?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Was this the man&rsquo;s own musing, or rather the very devil whispering in his

-      ear? From such fragmentary glimpses of his mind as have been given, we can

-      at least guess the extent of his intellectual degradation.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As he walked along the country road, his pale countenance became seraphic;

-      just so may the face of Lucifer have looked when he plumed his wings for

-      deliberate flight from heaven.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He stepped into a roadside farm and had a glass of milk, which the good

-      woman of the place handed to him with a sentiment of adoration; he looked

-      so gentle, so at peace with all living things. His white hand rested for a

-      moment on the head of her little girl, in gentle benediction. He had never

-      felt more tenderly disposed to all creation than at that moment, when he

-      was prepared to dip a pen into his own hearts blood, and sign the little

-      promissory note which Mephistopheles carries, always ready, in his pocket.

-      He had hated his congregation before; now he loved them exceedingly&mdash;and

-      all the world.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XVI. AT THE OPERA.

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>n arriving in

-      London, George Haldane was driven straight to the house of an old friend

-      at Chelsea, where he always stayed during his visits to the Metropolis.

-      This friend was Lovell Blakiston, as eccentric a being in his own way as

-      Haldane himself was in his. He had been, since boyhood, in the India

-      Office, where he still put in an appearance several hours a day, and

-      whence he still drew a large income, with the immediate right to a

-      retiring pension whenever he choose to take it. He was a great student,

-      especially of the pagan poets and philosophers; and the greater part of

-      his days and nights were spent in his-old-fashioned library, opening with

-      folding doors on to a quiet lawn, which led in its turn to the very

-      river-side. He had two pet aversions&mdash;modern progress, in the shape

-      of railroads, electricity, geology; all the new business of science and

-      modern religion, especially in its connection with Christian theology. He

-      was, in short, a pagan pure and simple, fond of old books, old wine, old

-      meditations, and old gods. However he might differ with Haldane on such

-      subjects&rsquo; as the nebular hypothesis, which he hated with all his heart, he

-      agreed with him sufficiently on the subject of Christianity. Both had a

-      cordial dislike for church ceremonies and church bells.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The two gentlemen had another taste in common. This was the opera, which

-      both enjoyed hugely, though Blakiston never ceased to regret the

-      disappearance of that old operatic institution, the ballet, which, like a

-      rich dessert wine, used to bring the feast of music to a delightfully

-      sensuous conclusion. Haldane was too young a man to remember such visions

-      of loveliness as Cerito, whom his old friend had often gone to see in

-      company with Horne Took.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      So it happened that two or three days after his arrival, Haldane

-      accompanied his host to the opera house, where Patti was to appear in

-      &ldquo;Traviata.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Seated comfortably in the stalls, he was glancing quietly round the house

-      between the acts, when his attention was attracted to a face in one of the

-      private boxes. A pale, Madonna-like, yet girlish face, set in golden hair,

-      with soft blue eyes, and an expression so forlorn, so wistful, so ill at

-      ease, that it was almost painful to behold.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane started in surprise.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What is the matter?&rdquo; said his friend; &ldquo;Have you recognized anybody?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am not certain,&rdquo; returned Haldane, raising his opera-glass and

-      surveying the face through them. Then, after a long look, he added&rsquo; as if

-      to himself, &ldquo;I am almost sure it is the same.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Do you mean that young lady in black, seated in the second tier?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes. Oblige me by looking at her, and tell me what you think of her.&rdquo;

-       Blakiston raised his opera-glass, and took a long look.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo; asked Haldane.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;She reminds me of one of your detestable pre-Raphaelistic drawings,

-      shockheaded and vacuous. She is pretty, I grant you, but she has no

-      expression.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I should say, on the contrary, a very marked expression of deep pain.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Tight lacing,&rdquo; grunted Blakiston. &ldquo;Your modern women have no shape, since

-      Cerito.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Here Haldane rose from his seat. Looking up again, he had met the young

-      lady&rsquo;s eyes, and had perceived at once that she recognized him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am going to speak to her,&rdquo; he explained. &ldquo;She is a neighbour of ours,

-      and a friend of my wife.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He made his way to the second tier, and finding the door of the box open,

-      he looked in, and saw the person he sought, seated in company with an

-      elderly lady and a young man.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Miss Dove!&rdquo; he said, advancing into the box. &ldquo;Although we have only met

-      twice, I thought I could not be mistaken.&rdquo; Edith (for it was she) turned

-      quickly and took his outstretched hand..

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;How strange to find you here!&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;Is Mrs. Haldane with you?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, indeed. I left her to the pious duties of the parish, which she is

-      fulfilling daily, I expect, in company with your seraphic friend the

-      minister.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Edith looked at him with strange surprise, but said nothing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;When did you come to town?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;I thought you were quite a country

-      young lady, and never ventured into the giddy world of London.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I was not very well,&rdquo; replied Edith, &ldquo;and my aunt invited me to stop with

-      her a few weeks. This is my aunt, Mrs. Hetherington; and this gentleman is

-      my cousin Walter.&rdquo; Here Edith went somewhat nervously through the ceremony

-      of introduction. She added, with a slight flush, &ldquo;My cousin insisted on

-      bringing us here to-night. I did not wish to come.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo; demanded Haldane, noticing her uneasiness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Because I did not think it right; and I have been thinking all the

-      evening what the vicar will say when I tell him I have been to such a

-      place.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Here the old lady shook her head ominously, and gave a slight groan.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Is the place so terrible,&rdquo; asked Haldane, smiling, &ldquo;now you have seen

-      it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, it is very pretty; and of course the singing is beautiful. But Mr.

-      Santley does not approve of the theatre, and I am sorry I came.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Nonsense, Edith,&rdquo; said young Hetherington, with a laugh. &ldquo;You know you

-      wanted to see the &lsquo;Traviata,&rsquo; The fact is,&rdquo; he continued, turning to

-      Haldane, &ldquo;my mother and my cousin are both terribly old-fashioned. My

-      mother here is Scotch, and believes in the kirk, the whole kirk, and

-      nothing but the kirk; and as for Edith, she is entirely, as they say in

-      Scotland, under the minister&rsquo;s &lsquo;thoomb.&rsquo; I thought they would have enjoyed

-      themselves, but they have been doing penance all the evening.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Without paying attention to her cousin&rsquo;s remarks, Edith was looking

-      thoughtfully at Haldane.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;When do you return to Omberley?&rdquo; she asked.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am not sure&mdash;in a fortnight, at the latest. I am going on to

-      France.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And Mrs. Haldane will remain all that time alone?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;Oh, she will not miss me. She has her household

-      duties, her parish, her garden&mdash;to say nothing of her clergyman. And

-      you, do <i>you</i> stay long in London?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am not sure; I think not. I am tired of it already.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Again that weary, wistful look, which sat so strangely on the young,

-      almost childish face. She sighed, and gazed sadly around the crowded

-      house. A minute later, Haldane took his leave, and rejoined his friend in

-      the stalls. Looking up at the end of the next act, he saw that the box was

-      empty.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The women had yielded to their consciences, and departed before the end of

-      the performance.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      That night, when Haldane went home to Chelsea, he found a letter from his

-      wife. It was a long letter, but contained no news whatever, being chiefly

-      occupied with self-reproaches that the writer had not accompanied her

-      husband in his pilgrimage. This struck Haldane as rather peculiar, as in

-      former communications Ellen had expressed no such dissatisfaction; but he

-      was by nature and of set habit unsuspicious, and he set it down to some

-      momentary <i>ennui</i>. The letter contained no mention whatever of Mr.

-      Santley, but in the postscript, where ladies often put the most

-      interesting part of their correspondence, there was a reference to the

-      Spanish valet, Baptisto.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;As I told you,&rdquo; wrote Ellen, &ldquo;Baptisto seems in excellent health, though

-      he is mysterious and unpleasant as usual. He comes and goes like a ghost,

-      but if he made you believe that he was ill, he was imposing upon you. I do

-      so wish you had taken him with you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane folded up the letter with a smile.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Poor Baptisto!&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;I suppose it is as I suspected, and the

-      little widow at the lodge is at the bottom of it all.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      After a few days&rsquo; sojourn at Chelsea, during which time he was much

-      interested in certain spiritualistic investigations which were just then

-      being conducted by the London <i>savants</i>, to the manifest confusion of

-      the spirits and indignation of true believers, Haldane went to Paris,

-      where he read his paper before the French Society to which he belonged.

-      There we shall leave him for a little time, returning to the company of

-      Miss Dove, with whom we have more immediate concern.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Mother and son lived in a pleasant house overlooking Clapham Common, a

-      district famous for its religious edification, its young ladies&rsquo; 

-      seminaries, and its dissenting chapels. Mrs. Hethering-ton was the wealthy

-      widow of a Glasgow merchant, long settled in London, and she set her face

-      rigidly against modern thought, ecclesiastical vestments, and cooking on

-      the sabbath. Curiously enough, her son Walter, who inherited a handsome

-      competence, was a painter, and followed his heathen occupation with much

-      talent, and more youthful enthusiasm. His landscapes, chiefly of Highland

-      scenes, had been exhibited in the Royal Scottish Academy. His mother,

-      whose highest ideas of art were founded on a superficial acquaintance with

-      the Scripture pieces of Noel Paton, and an occasional contemplation of

-      biblical masterpieces in the Doré Gallery, would have preferred to have

-      seen him following in his fathers footsteps, and even entering the true

-      kirk as a preacher; but his sympathies were pagan, and a gloomy childish

-      experience had not fitted him with the requisite enthusiasm for John

-      Calvin and the sabbath.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Walter Hetherington was a fine fresh young fellow of three and twenty, and

-      belonged to the clever set of Scotch painters, headed by Messrs. Pettie,

-      Richardson, and Peter Graham. He was &ldquo;cannie&rdquo; painstaking, and rather

-      sceptical, and, putting aside his art, which he really loved, he felt true

-      enthusiasm for only one thing in the world&mdash;his cousin Edith, whom he

-      hoped and longed to make his wife.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As a very young girl, Edith had seemed rather attached to him; but of late

-      years, during which they saw each other only at long intervals, she seemed

-      colder and colder to his advances. He noticed her indifference, and set it

-      down somewhat angrily to girlish fanaticism, for he had little or no

-      suspicion whatever that another man&rsquo;s image might be filling her thoughts.

-      Once or twice, it is true, when she sounded the praises of her Omberley

-      pastor, his zeal, his goodness, his beauty of discourse, he asked himself

-      if he could possibly have a rival <i>there</i>; but knowing something of

-      the relinquent fancies of young vestals, he rejected the idea. To tell the

-      truth, he rather pitied the Rev. Mr. Santley, whom he had never seen, as a

-      hardheaded, dogmatic, elderly creature of the type greatly approved by his

-      mother, and abundant even in Clapham. He had no idea of an Adonis in a

-      clerical frock coat, with a beautiful profile, white hands, and a voice

-      gentle and low&mdash;the latter an excellent thing in woman, but a

-      dangerous thing in an unmarried preacher of the Word.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XVII. WALTER HETHERINGTON.

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hen the party got

-      home from the opera, it was only half-past ten. They sat down to a frugal

-      supper in the dining-room.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am sorry you did not wait till the last act,&rdquo; said the young man, after

-      an awkward silence. &ldquo;Patti&rsquo;s death scene is magnificent.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m thinking we heard enough,&rdquo; his mother replied. &ldquo;I never cared much

-      for play-acting, and I see little sense in screeching about in a foreign

-      tongue. I&rsquo;d rather have half an hour of the Reverend Mr. Mactavish&rsquo;s

-      discourses than a night of fooling like yon.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What do <i>you</i> say, Edith? I&rsquo;m sure the music was very pretty.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, it was beautiful; but not knowing much of Italian, I could not

-      gather what it was all about.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It is an operatic version of a story of the younger Dumas,&rdquo; explained

-      Walter, with an uncomfortable sense of treading on dangerous ground. &ldquo;The

-      story is that of a beautiful woman who has lived an evil life, and is

-      reformed through her affection for a young Frenchman. His friends think he

-      is degrading himself by offering to marry her, and to cure him she

-      pretends to be false and wicked. In the end, she dies in his arms,

-      broken-hearted. It is a very touching subject, I think, though some people

-      consider it immoral.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Here the matron broke in with quiet severity.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I wonder yon woman&mdash;Patti, you call her&mdash;doesn&rsquo;t think shame to

-      appear in such dresses. One of them was scarcely decent, and I was almost

-      ashamed to look at her&mdash;the creature!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But her singing, mother, her singing; was it not divine?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It was meeddling loud; but I&rsquo;ve heard far finer in the kirk. Edith, my

-      bairn, you&rsquo;re tired, I&rsquo;m thinking. We&rsquo;ll just read a chapter, and get to

-      bed.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      So the chapter was read, and the ladies retired, while Walter walked off

-      to his studio to have a quiet pipe. He was too used to his mother&rsquo;s

-      peculiarities to be much surprised at the failure of the evening&rsquo;s

-      entertainment; but he felt really amazed that Edith had not been more

-      impressed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The next morning, when they met at breakfast, Edith astonished both her

-      aunt and cousin by expressing her wish to return to Omberley as soon as

-      possible.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Go away already!&rdquo; cried the young man. &lsquo;&ldquo;Why, you&rsquo;ve hardly been here a

-      week, and you&rsquo;ve seen nothing of town, and we&rsquo;ve all the picture-galleries

-      to visit yet.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And you have not heard Mr. Mactavish discoorse,&rdquo; cried his mother. &ldquo;No,

-      no; you must bide awhile.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      But Edith shook her head, and they saw her mind was made up.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I can come again at Christmas, but I would rather go now,&rdquo; she said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But why have you changed your mind?&rdquo; inquired her cousin eagerly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I think they want me at home; and there is a great deal of church work to

-      be done in the village.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Walter was not deceived by this excuse, and tried persuasion, but it was

-      of no avail. The girl was determined to return home immediately. He little

-      knew the real cause of her determination. Haldane&rsquo;s presence in London had

-      filled her, in spite of herself, with jealous alarm. Ellen Haldane was

-      alone at the Manor, with no husband&rsquo;s eyes to trouble her; and, despite

-      the clergyman&rsquo;s oath of fidelity, Edith could not trust him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Yes, she would go home. It was time to put an end to it all, to remind

-      Santley of his broken promises, and to claim their fulfilment. If he

-      refused to do her justice, she would part from him for ever; not, however,

-      without letting the other woman, her rival, know his true character.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was arranged that she should leave by an early train next morning. For

-      the greater part of the day she kept her room, engaged in preparations for

-      the journey; but towards evening Walter found her alone in the

-      drawing-room. The old lady, his mother, who earnestly wished him to marry

-      his cousin, had contrived to be out of the way.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am so sorry you are going,&rdquo; the young man said. &ldquo;We see so little of

-      each other now.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Edith was seated with her back to the window, her face in deep shade. She

-      knew by her cousin&rsquo;s manner that he was more than usually agitated, and

-      she dreaded what was coming&mdash;what had come, indeed, on several

-      occasions before. She did not answer, but almost unconsciously heaved a

-      deep sigh.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Does that mean that you are sorry too?&rdquo; asked Walter, leaning towards her

-      to see her face.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Of course I am sorry,&rdquo; she replied, with a certain constraint.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I wish I could believe that. Somehow or other, Edith, it seems to me that

-      you would rather be anywhere than here. Well, you have some cause; for the

-      house is dreary enough, and we are all dull people. But you and I used to

-      be such friends! More like brother and sister than mere cousins. Is that

-      all over? Are we to drift farther and farther apart as the years pass on?

-      It seems to me as if it might come to that.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;How absurd you are!&rdquo; said Edith, trying to force a laugh, but failing

-      lamentably. &ldquo;You know I was always fond of you and&mdash;and&mdash;of your

-      mother.&rdquo; Walter winced under the sting of the last sentence, so

-      unconsciously given.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t mean that at all,&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;Of course you liked us, as

-      relations like each other; but am I never to be more to you than a mere

-      cousin? You know I love you, that I have loved you ever since we were boy

-      and girl; and once&mdash;ah, yes, I thought you cared for me a little.

-      Edith, what does it mean? Why are you so changed?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Edith was more deeply changed than ever her cousin could guess. Had he

-      been able to see her face, he would have been wonder-stricken at its

-      expression of mingled shame and despair. She tried to reply; but before

-      she could do so her voice was choked, and her tears began to fall. In a

-      moment he was close beside her, and bending over her, with one hand

-      outstretched to clasp her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Now, you are crying. Edith, my darling, what is it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t touch me,&rdquo; she sobbed, shrinking from him. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t bear it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Forgive me, if I have said anything to pain you; and oh, my darling!

-      remember it is my love that carries me away. I do love you, Edith. I wish

-      to God I could prove to you how much!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He took her hand in his; but she drew it forcibly from him, and, shrinking

-      still further away, entirely losing her self-control, sobbed silently.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t!&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;For pity&rsquo;s sake, be silent. You do not know what

-      you are saying. I am not fit to become your wife.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He moved a few steps from her, and waited until her wild, hysterical

-      sobbing should have ceased. She commanded herself quickly, as it the wild

-      outburst which she had not been able to control had terrified her. Then

-      she rose, and would have left the room, but the young man stopped her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Edith,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;surely you did not mean what you said just now, that

-      you are not fit to become my wife?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she replied quickly; &ldquo;I did mean it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She was glad that her face, was turned from him, and that the room was in

-      partial darkness. She was glad that she was able to steady her voice, and

-      to give a direct reply.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He did not answer; she felt he was waiting for her to speak on.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Even if two people love each other,&rdquo; she said, trembling, &ldquo;or only think

-      they do, which is too often the case, they have no right to thoughtlessly

-      contract that holy tie. There cannot be perfect happiness in this world

-      without perfect spiritual communion. I know&mdash;I feel sure&mdash;that

-      this does not exist between you and me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The young man flushed, and his brow contracted somewhat angrily.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Take time to think it over,&rdquo; he said quickly; &ldquo;this is not your own heart

-      that is speaking now. The seeds which that man, your clergyman, has been

-      sowing in your heart have borne fruit. Religion is changing your whole

-      nature. It is alienating you hopelessly from all to whom you are so dear;

-      it is making you unjust, cruelly unkind, to yourself, but doubly so to

-      others, under the shallow pretence that you are serving God!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She did not interrupt him; but when he ceased, she put out her hand and

-      said, quickly but firmly&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Good night.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Good night,&rdquo; he repeated. &ldquo;It is so early, surely you are not going

-      to-your room already? This is our last night together, remember.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am so tired,&rdquo; returned the girl, wearily. &ldquo;I must get a good night&rsquo;s

-      rest, since I am to start early in the morning.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And you will not say another word?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know that there is anything more that I can say.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You are angry with me, Edith. Before you go, say at least that you

-      forgive me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am not angry; indeed, I am glad you have spoken. I know now I should

-      never have come here. I know I must never come again.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      So, without another word, they parted. Edith went up to her room. Walter

-      sought his, and there he remained all the evening, sitting in the

-      darkness, pondering over the unaccountable change which had taken place in

-      the girl.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Yes, she was changed; but was it hopeless, and altogether unexpected?

-      Might she not, with gentle care, be freed from this hateful influence of

-      the Church? Walter believed that might be so. Already he seemed to see

-      light through the cloud, and to trace the secret of this man&rsquo;s influence

-      over her. Edith was imaginative and highly fanatical; he had appealed to

-      her imagination. Being a High Church clergyman, he had employed two

-      powerful agents&mdash;colour and form. He had scattered the shrine at

-      which she worshipped with soft and durable perfumes, and had set up sacred

-      symbols; and he had said, &ldquo;Kneel before these; cast down all your worldly

-      wishes and earthly affections.&rdquo; She, being intoxicated, as it were, had

-      yielded to the spell. It was part of his plan, thought Walter, that she

-      must neither marry nor form any other earthly tie; for was it not through

-      her, and such as her, that his beloved Church was able to sustain its full

-      prestige? The Church must reign supreme in her heart, as it had done in

-      that of many another vestal; it was at the altar alone that her gifts of

-      love and devotion must be burned. She must be sacrificed, as many others

-      had been before her, and the Church would stand.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      This was the young man&rsquo;s true view of the case. He believed it, for he had

-      learnt in his home to hate other worldliness; but though he fancied he saw

-      the nature of the discord, he could not as yet perceive the directest

-      means of cure.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The next morning, when Edith, looking very pale and weary, but still very

-      pretty in her simple travelling costume, came down to breakfast, she was a

-      little surprised to find Walter already there. His manner was kind and

-      considerate, as it had always been, and he made no reference whatever to

-      what had passed between them on the previous night. They sat and carried

-      on a constrained but polite conversation; but both were glad when it was

-      interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Hetherington. The old lady was filled

-      with genuine regret at her niece&rsquo;s sudden departure, and, while presiding

-      at the breakfast-table, was so busy laying down plans for her speedy

-      return that she did not notice that every morsel on Edith&rsquo;s plate remained

-      untouched, and that, while sipping her tea, her eyes wandered continually

-      towards the window, as if anxiously watching for the cab which was to take

-      her away. Walter noticed it with pain, and remained discreetly silent.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As soon as the cab arrived, he left the room, ostensibly to superintend

-      the removal of Ediths luggage, but in reality to be absent at the

-      leave-taking between his mother and his cousin.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He accompanied Edith to the station. It was merely an act of common

-      courtesy, to which she could make no possible objection. On the way there

-      was very little said on either side. She was silent from preoccupation,

-      and he feared to tread on dangerous ground. But when they were near their

-      parting, when Edith was comfortably seated in the train, and he stood by

-      the open carriage door, he ventured in a covert manner to refer to what

-      had passed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;The house will be brighter in wintertime,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and we shall have

-      more means of amusing you. You will come back at Christmas, Edith?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She started, dropped his hand, and drew herself from him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, I think not,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;it is always a busy time with us at

-      Christmas. There is much to be done in the church.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      This was their good-bye; for before he could say more the guard noisily

-      closed the carriage doors, and whistled shrilly. Mechanically Walter took

-      off his hat, and stood sadly watching the train as it moved away.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XVIII. CHURCH BELLS&mdash;AND A DISCORD.

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">E</span>dith was glad that

-      the next day was Sunday. She rose early, dressed hurriedly, and went for a

-      walk in the fresh morning air. She felt instinctively that she had a

-      battle to fight, and that all her resources must be brought into play to

-      gain her the victory. If her influence over the man was to continue, she

-      knew there was one way by which she could regain it. With such pale cheeks

-      and lacklustre eyes as she had brought with her from London, where, she

-      asked, would her chances be against Ellen Haldane&rsquo;s fresh country charms?

-      She must banish all painful thoughts for the present, and try to win back

-      the roses which he had caused to fade.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She walked for above an hour; and when she returned home, she went

-      straight into the garden to gather a little bouquet of flowers. Then she

-      went up to her room to dress for church. When she came down to breakfast,

-      she wore her prettiest costume, and the bunch of flowers was fastened at

-      her throat.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Her aunt had a headache, she said, and could not go to church. Edith was

-      not sorry; indeed, when the time came for her to set out, she was glad she

-      was alone.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She arrived at the church rather earlier than usual, nevertheless she

-      walked straight in, and no sooner had she crossed the threshold than she

-      obeyed a sudden impulse which seized her, and determined for that day at

-      least not to occupy her usual seat. She selected one which was some

-      distance from the pulpit, but from which she could command an excellent

-      view of the pew belonging to Foxglove Manor.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The congregation gathered, but the Haldane&rsquo;s pew was empty. Edith watched

-      it with feverish impatience. Presently, just as the tolling bell was about

-      to cease, she saw Mrs. Haldane enter and take her seat.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Two minutes later, Mr. Santley, clothed in his white, priestly robes,

-      ascended the steps of the reading-desk, and bent his beautiful head in

-      prayer. As he rose to his feet, Edith, who had been watching him in

-      extreme fascination, saw his gaze wandering round the church, and finally

-      fix upon the face of the mistress of Foxglove Manor. She saw, or thought

-      she saw, the lady&rsquo;s eyelids quiver and finally droop beneath that glance;

-      while the clergyman arose, like a sick man suddenly restored to health,

-      and began to read the lessons for the day.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      How that morning passed Edith scarcely knew. She remained like one in a

-      dream, mechanically going though the religious forms, but feeling as if

-      her heart&rsquo;s blood was slowly ebbing away. Of one thing only she was

-      conscious&mdash;that of all those upturned faces before him the clergyman

-      seemed to see but one, but that from this one face seemed to draw his

-      inspiration, as the earth draws life and light from the shining rays of

-      the sun.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At length the service was over, the congregation dispersed, and Edith

-      found herself walking up and down the quiet lanes alone, panting for air,

-      feeling sick at heart, and shivering through and through, though she stood

-      in the warm rays of sunlight. Go home she could not. She must see Mr.

-      Santley before she could face another human soul.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She turned, intending to go to the Vicarage, but when she was yet within

-      some distance of the house, she saw coming towards her the very man she

-      sought.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She paused, not knowing whether to feel glad or sorry. It was certainly

-      better than having to go to the Vicarage, yet now that the meeting was so

-      near, she shrank from it. She made a desperate effort to compose herself,

-      and paused, waiting for him. The clergyman was evidently lost in deep

-      thought, his head was bent, his eyes were fixed on the ground, and he was

-      quite close to Edith before he saw her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When their eyes met he paused, almost involuntarily, a momentary flush of

-      mingled annoyance and surprise passed over his face, then he recovered

-      himself, walked forward, and quietly extended his hand.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Miss Dove!&rdquo; he said, glancing nervously round. &ldquo;I had no idea you were at

-      home. How do you do?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      It had been agreed between them, long before, that so long as their secret

-      remained a secret, no warmer greeting than this must be exchanged between

-      them in public. When the proposition had been made, Edith had quietly

-      assented. What was it to her that Santley should bow his head with a

-      politeness even more frigid than he bestowed upon any one of his flock.

-      Had she not seen the burning light of love in his half-lowered eyes? and

-      had she not known that a few hours later she would feel his caressing arms

-      about her, and hear his rich, mellow voice whispering tenderly in her ear?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      But now all was changed. The frigid bow which had formerly been the

-      prologue, had rapidly developed into the play. There were no stolen

-      meetings now; no consoling whisperings. The clergyman had latterly become

-      alive to the risk of such indulgences, and had gradually allowed them to

-      cease; and Edith, receiving as her portion the cold bow and cold handshake

-      that every eye might have seen, had watched the love light gradually fade

-      from her hero&rsquo;s eyes.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      But she had never seen him so cold as to-day. When their eyes had met, she

-      had noticed the look of positive annoyance which had passed across his

-      face. It had soon fled, but when he spoke and extended his hand, his face

-      had assumed a look of cold severity.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Edith did not speak; the painful beating of her heart almost stifled her,

-      and her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. She extended her hand; the

-      cold, listless touch of his fingers throbbed through her like ice. The

-      clergyman saw her trouble, and again that look of impatient annoyance

-      passed across his face then he raised his brows in calm surprise.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What is the matter?&rdquo; he asked quickly. &ldquo;Has some domestic trouble caused

-      your sudden return home?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She withdrew her hand from his cold, lax fingers, and answered, &ldquo;No.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Then she turned and walked along in silence by his side.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The good man was annoyed, seriously annoyed. First at her sudden

-      appearance in the village, when he believed she was safely bestowed in

-      London for several weeks to come; next at the <i>rôle</i> she thought fit

-      to assume. He hated scenes at any time; just now he particularly wished to

-      avoid one. So he walked on in silence, until he could command his voice to

-      speak quietly; then he said, in the most careless manner possible&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;<i>When</i> did you return home?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Last night. I attended church this morning.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She looked at him quickly, to see what effect her words produced.

-      Apparently they produced none. The clergymans face remained as coldly

-      impassive as before; he raised his brows slightly as he replied.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Indeed! I did not see you there.&rdquo; Then, after a pause, he added, &ldquo;Your

-      return was very sudden, was it not? I thought you intended staying away

-      for some time.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I changed my mind. I thought you would have been glad to have me back

-      again.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Then, swept on by a wild impulse, which she could not possibly restrain,

-      she added slowly, but tremulously&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Charles, are you <i>sorry</i> I have come?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The clergyman started, flushed, then quickly recovered himself, as he

-      added&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Sorry, my dear Edith? What a question! Why of course I am not sorry.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then, why not say that you are glad? Why not let me know it? Don&rsquo;t you

-      see you are breaking my heart?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Santley paused, and looked at her. He did not flush this time, his face

-      grew white as marble, his eyes quite steel-like in their coldness. He had

-      dreaded a scene, but this was so very much worse than he had expected; for

-      by this time Edith had lost all self-control, and was sobbing violently.

-      His face hardened terribly. He must put an end once and for ever to such

-      unpleasant encounters.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Edith, have you lost your senses?&rdquo; he said; and the bitterness of his

-      tone was like putting a knife into the girl&rsquo;s heart. &ldquo;If you wish to

-      perform in such scenes as this, you could surely find some other time and

-      place than the public road and the broad daylight. If you have anything to

-      say to me, you must come to me again in private. At present I have no more

-      time which I can place at your service. I have business with Mrs. Haldane,

-      who is waiting for me at the Vicarage; and my duties at the church will

-      soon begin again.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He raised his hat, and would have moved away, but Edith laid her hand upon

-      his arm and forcibly detained him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Stop!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;One word! You shall not go. I must speak.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He turned upon her almost angrily; he attempted, but in vain, to shake off

-      her detaining hand.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Tell me,&rdquo; she cried; &ldquo;why are you going to meet Mrs. Haldane?&rdquo; Then,

-      before he could recover from his astonishment sufficiently to speak, she

-      added, &ldquo;You need not tell me, for I <i>know</i>. It is this woman who has

-      come between you and me. Oh, do you think I don&rsquo;t know that since she came

-      to the village you have been a changed man? What did I come home for?

-      Because I knew it was not right that you and she should be in the village

-      <i>alone</i>.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      This time the clergyman succeeded in shaking off her hand. The face which

-      he turned towards hers was almost livid in its pallor.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You forget yourself,&rdquo; he said, with a sternness which was even harder to

-      bear than bitter reproach. &ldquo;Well, I suppose you think you have a right to

-      insult me; but permit me to remind you that your right does not extend to

-      religious affairs, or to a lady who is the most esteemed member of my

-      congregation.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I have not insulted you, Charles; I am only warning you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You are very kind,&rdquo; he interposed, with a sneer, &ldquo;but I am, in no greater

-      need of your warning than is the lady. Until you can learn how to control

-      your own words and actions, it would be better for <i>you</i> that we

-      should not meet.&rdquo; Again he moved, as if about to leave her; again she put

-      forth her hand, and held him fast. The scene had become more violent than

-      she had intended. It was now too late to pause.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;One more word,&rdquo; she sobbed. &ldquo;Promise me that you will not see her, then I

-      will promise never to mention this subject again.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Promise you what? To discontinue all communications with Mrs. Haldane?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, yes; that is all. It is not much to ask you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It is much more than you have any right to ask. You have chosen to

-      connect my name dishonourably with a lady whom I esteem. Enough! I cannot

-      control your actions, but I mean to regulate my own. Good morning, Edith.

-      Since you have nothing more important to say to me, I suppose I am at

-      liberty to go?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He raised his hat and walked away, pausing a minute later to raise it

-      again, and to address some pleasant remark to a member of his

-      congregation, who happened at that moment to be coming along the road. It

-      was the sight of this stranger which prevented Edith from following, which

-      made her turn and walk with rapid steps towards her home. She felt cold

-      and sick and heart-broken, and she shrank from the sight of any human

-      face.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When she reached her home, she found her aunt, who had been surprised at

-      her protracted absence, gazing uneasily up and down the road. The sight of

-      the girl&rsquo;s pale, tear-stained face alarmed her, but Edith silenced her

-      inquiries by declaring that she had not been very well.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It was foolish of me, but I could not help crying at the service,&rdquo; she

-      said. &ldquo;Dear aunt, do not be anxious. I am better now, and only want rest.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Shall I send you up some dinner, darling?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No; nothing. I want to be alone&mdash;quite alone.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      So, with a weary, listless look upon her, the girl went up to her room,

-      and, having locked the door, she threw herself upon the bed, and cried as

-      if her heart were broken.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Meanwhile Mr. Santley went on his way, almost as much disturbed as Edith

-      herself. He was angry, terribly angry; for if scenes similar to the one

-      through which he had passed were allowed to continue, he anticipated a

-      storm of troubles in the future. But how to avoid them? What would be the

-      best and safest course to adopt? The good man was terribly perplexed. To

-      openly defy the girl might cause her, in her bitterness and pain, to

-      expose herself and him; which would certainly be awkward, since he wished,

-      above all things, to stand well with his congregation. And yet to adopt

-      any other course, he must at least pretend to subscribe to her conditions.

-      He must be content to renounce, or pretend to renounce, his intimacy with

-      Mrs. Haldane. The man of God was justly indignant.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Such a course, he knew, must not be thought of, and he resolved with pious

-      determination to continue Ellen Haldane&rsquo;s conversion, for which he was so

-      zealous and to leave matters between himself and Edith exactly as they

-      were.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He knew the girl&rsquo;s disposition. She would soon acknowledge her folly, and

-      make the first advances towards reconciliation. Well, then he would be

-      inclined to meet her half-way, but she must be the first to move. If, on

-      the other hand, she chose to take the unpleasant course of exposing him,

-      why, he would have but one alternative: he would simply deny her

-      statements, and who would believe her? It would be an unpleasant phase of

-      experience to have to pass through, and it would compel him to sacrifice a

-      fellow-creature.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Nevertheless, he acknowledged to himself, with the air of a Christian

-      martyr, that if she pushed him to extremities it would be necessary.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      After all, he hoped that Edith, shut up with her own grief, in the

-      solitude of her own room, would soon be brought to see the error of her

-      ways, and would make that first advance towards reconciliation which was

-      necessary for the peace of mind of both.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      But, whatever might happen in the future, Edith had succeeded for that day

-      at least in completely destroying the good mans peace of mind. His

-      agitation was so great that he was compelled to walk about the quiet lanes

-      until his tranquillity was somewhat restored. Then he returned to the

-      Vicarage, where Mrs. Haldane was comfortably seated with his sister, and

-      enjoyed her society until the hour of his labours returned.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When he entered the church that afternoon, all the congregation thought he

-      was looking more seraphic than ever. Many a young heart fluttered with

-      holiness, and many an eyelid drooped reverently, before the calm serenity

-      of his gaze. As he stood facing his people, he cast his eyes around the

-      church. Edith was not there.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He turned the leaves of his gold-clasped volume, and as his rich voice

-      filled the church, and the congregation rose, he gazed once more about

-      him. This time his cheek flushed slightly, and a soft sigh of relief and

-      happiness escaped his parted lips. Mrs. Haldane was again in her place,

-      calmly joining in the prayers.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      That afternoon the clergyman preached like one inspired; all were

-      impressed but none were cognizant of the cause. Though the clergyman&rsquo;s

-      eyes wandered continually around the church, he saw only one face, was

-      conscious only of one presence. So engrossed was he, and so wrapped up in

-      his fervour of admiration, that he did not notice what was going on around

-      him. Had he done so, he would have seen that there was another member of

-      the congregation besides Mrs. Haldane who attracted a certain amount of

-      interest. Seated in the gallery, calmly joining in the service and

-      watching the minister, was the foreign &ldquo;gentleman with the eyes.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XIX. HE IS BUT A LANDSCAPE PAINTER

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>fter Edith&rsquo;s

-      departure from London, Walter Hetherington thought long and deeply over

-      the mysterious change in his cousin. The more he thought, the more uneasy

-      he grew. Of one thing he felt tolerably sure&mdash;that the girl had got

-      into the hands of, a religious fanatic, who either consciously or

-      unconsciously was completely destroying himself, his happiness&mdash;in

-      this world at least. She was fairly possessed by the fever of other

-      worldliness, he said to himself, and if left alone she would, like many

-      others before her, probably end her days in a mad house.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Having arrived at this enlightened conclusion, which was chiefly based on

-      what Edith had herself told him, Walter determined that she should not be

-      left alone. What would be more rational, he said to himself, than that he

-      should pack up his sketching paraphernalia and pay a short visit to the

-      picturesque little village where his aunt and cousin lived? Surely Edith

-      would be glad to see him, and while he remained to watch over her, his

-      time would not be entirely lost.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When he told his mother of his determination to revisit the country, the

-      old lady was unfeignedly glad. She suspected, from the unaccountable

-      sudden departure of the girl, that the two young people had had a quarrel,

-      and she was glad to see her son was magnanimous enough to make the first

-      advances towards reconciliation. So she helped him to put a few things

-      together, and on the spur of the moment he started off.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He had written neither to his cousin nor aunt to tell them of his coming.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &mdash;He had intended sending a telegram from the station, but at the

-      last moment he changed his mind, and as he sat in the train which was

-      rapidly whirling him onward, he began to ask himself whether it would be

-      judicious of him to go to his aunt&rsquo;s house at all. To be sure, he had

-      always made it his head-quarters; but now things were changed. Edith had

-      left his mother&rsquo;s house to avoid <i>him</i>; would it be fair to either of

-      them that he should become his aunt&rsquo;s guest? By living in the house he

-      would force from her a communication which might be very grudgingly given,

-      and at the same time his lips must be inevitably sealed. He finally

-      decided that, during the visit at least, it would be better for every one

-      that he should stay at the inn.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      So on arriving at the station he drove to the inn, secured at a cheap

-      price a couple of cosy rooms, and determined to delay calling upon his

-      relations until the following day.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The next day was fine, a fit day for an artist to lounge, dream, perhaps

-      work. Walter hung about the inn till midday; then he took his sketch-book

-      under his arm, and strolled forth in the direction of his aunt&rsquo;s cottage.

-      When he reached the door, and was about to knock, it was suddenly opened

-      by Edith, dressed in walking costume.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      On coming thus unexpectedly face to face with her cousin, she looked

-      manifestly angry.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Walter, you here?&rdquo; she said coldly; then she added quickly, &ldquo;Is anything

-      the matter at home?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Nothing whatever,&rdquo; said Walter, quietly giving his hand, and taking no

-      notice whatever of the irritation so plainly visible on her face. &ldquo;I got

-      tired of London, that was all, and thought a few days in the country might

-      do me good. I am not going to bore <i>you</i>. I have brought my working

-      tools down with me, and mean to take some sketches back.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But where is your luggage?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Down at the inn.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;At the inn?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes; I had it taken direct there last night. I was fortunate enough, too,

-      to secure rooms&mdash;a capital little parlour fit for a studio, and a

-      bedroom leading out of it. I shall be able to do the host, and entertain

-      you, if you&rsquo;ll come.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You are going to stay at the inn?&rdquo; said Edith. &ldquo;You always stayed with <i>us</i>

-      before!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Of course I did; but I am not going to be so inconsiderate as to plant

-      myself upon you <i>now</i>.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He laid the slightest possible stress upon the &ldquo;now,&rdquo; and Edith

-      understood; nevertheless, she deemed it prudent to affect ignorance and

-      read a different meaning in his words. She murmured something about being

-      very much occupied, and having little time to attend to visitors; then led

-      the way across the hall to their sitting-room, and brought him into the

-      presence of his aunt.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Mrs. Russell welcomed him cordially, but when she heard of his domestic

-      arrangements, her face went very blank indeed. She used every argument in

-      her power to persuade the young man to change his mind, and to have his

-      luggage brought up to the cottage. Walter, eager to accept her kindness,

-      was listening for one word from Edith. It never came, and he expressed his

-      intention to remain at the inn.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      But, although he abided by his former decision and remained <i>en garçon</i>

-      at the inn, a very great part of his time was spent at the cottage. The

-      old lady, anxious to atone for the inhospitable behaviour of her niece,

-      altered all her household arrangements to suit the erratic habits of the

-      young painter. The heavy midday meal was replaced by a light luncheon;

-      while for the light supper at six was substituted a substantial dinner, to

-      which Walter was always bidden. On the afternoon of that day, when the

-      young man had first made his appearance at the cottage, a rather

-      unpleasant interview had taken place between the aunt and niece, almost

-      the first which had come to ruffle the peaceful course of their evenly

-      flowing lines. The old lady had been indignant at the coolness of Edith&rsquo;s

-      reception, and had accused the girl of inhospitality and ingratitude;

-      while Edith had coolly given it as her opinion that the young man was much

-      better located elsewhere.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It is a tax to have a visitor always in the house, aunt,&rdquo; said Edith,

-      quietly; &ldquo;and&mdash;and I haven&rsquo;t the strength to bear it, I think.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Mrs. Russell looked up, and was surprised to find that the girl, after

-      bearing her reproaches so mildly, was now actually crying. She noted

-      again, too, with a start of shocked surprise how sadly she had changed.

-      The fresh, bright beauty which had once charmed every eye had gone,

-      leaving scarcely a trace behind it, and the face was pale, careworn, and

-      sad. She got up and kissed her, and that silent caress did more than a

-      dozen reproaches. It made Edith hurriedly leave the room, to cast herself,

-      crying bitterly, upon the bed, while Mrs. Russell sat down and wrote a

-      note to Walter.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You shall have your own way about staying at the inn,&rdquo; she wrote, &ldquo;and

-      you shall also have every possible hour of the day that you can make use

-      of for your work; but surely you can spare your evenings for us. I have

-      arranged to dine every day at six, and I beg of you, for Edith&rsquo;s sake, to

-      make one of the party. Dear Edith is far from well, and sadly changing.

-      She sees so few people, and the house is dull. Dear Walter, come often,

-      for her sake if not for mine.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Thus it happened that every night, when the little dining-room was laid

-      out for dinner, Walter made his appearance at the cottage door, and that

-      during those evening hours the family party was increased to three.

-      Sometimes they left the dinner-table to lounge in the pretty little

-      drawing-room, where Walter was permitted to smoke his cigar, while the old

-      lady worked at wool-work, and Edith played to them in the slowly gathering

-      darkness. Sometimes they strolled out on to the lawn, and had the tea

-      brought out, and laughed and chatted while they watched the stars appear

-      one by one in the heavens. Was it fancy, or since these social evenings

-      commenced was Edith really changed&rsquo; for the better? Walter fancied that

-      her eye was brighter, her cheek less pale, and that her manner towards

-      himself was sometimes very tender, as if she wished in a measure to atone

-      for her past coldness. This was particularly noticeable one night when the

-      two sat alone in the drawing-room.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Mrs. Russell, murmuring something about household affairs, had left them

-      together. Walter was reclining in an armchair, smoking his cigar and

-      watching his cousin, who was busily engaged embroidering crosses upon a

-      handsome altar-cloth, intended for the decoration of the church.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;These have been pleasant evenings,&rdquo; he said&mdash;&ldquo;pleasant for me, that

-      is. I shall be sorry enough when they come to an end.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Edith looked up and smiled sadly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;If we always had pleasure it would become a pain,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Though we

-      rebel against pain and suffering, it is, after all, a very great boon to

-      the world.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Humph! Perhaps so, if it were better distributed. What about the poor

-      creatures whose portion is only pain?&mdash;who, to put it vulgarly, get

-      all the kicks, and none of the halfpence?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;In this world, you should have said, Walter. Let us hope their measure of

-      happiness will be greater in the world that is to come.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Walter was silent. The conversation had taken precisely the turn which he

-      would have avoided, and he was wondering how to bring it to the subject

-      which was for ever uppermost in his mind. For a time he remained in a

-      brown study. Edith stitched on. Then he rose, took a few turns about the

-      room, and stopped near to her chair.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Edith,&rdquo; he said quietly, &ldquo;do you know why I came down here?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Something in his tone rather than his words made her start and flush

-      painfully. She did not raise her eyes or cease her work. Before she could

-      answer, he had taken her hand.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I came for <i>you</i>, Edith,&rdquo; he continued passionately. &ldquo;Listen to me,

-      my darling. Do not answer hastily, if you cannot give me a decided answer.

-      At least let me hope.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Decidedly yet tremblingly the girl put his hands from her, and half rose

-      from her seat. His words had frozen her to ice again.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why <i>did</i> you come here?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Do you call it manly or kind to

-      persecute me? I tell you I shall never marry.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      As she spoke her eye fell upon the altar-cloth, which she held in her

-      hand: Walter saw the look, and as he was walking back to the inn that

-      night it recurred to his mind again. The altar-cloth! There was the symbol

-      of the thing which had come between them&mdash;which was blighting his

-      life and hers. Edith was changing; but she was not utterly changed. He

-      resolved to do the only thing which now remained to be done. He determined

-      to appeal to her spiritual adviser.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      All night his mind was filled with this idea; it troubled his sleeping as

-      well as his waking moments, and when he rose in the morning it was the one

-      thing which possessed him. Now, he had never seen the clergyman, but he

-      had pictured him as a middle-aged, benevolent-looking man, perhaps with

-      spectacles; a gentle fanatic in religion, willing, through the very

-      bigotry of his nature, to sacrifice everything for the good of the Church,

-      but still, perhaps, amiable. He might be open to reason, and an appeal

-      made directly to him might be the means of putting an end to all the

-      trouble.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Breakfast over, the young man issued from the inn, and strolled

-      deliberately through the village in the direction of the Vicarage. It was

-      early in the day to make a call, so he walked very slowly, meditating as

-      he went on the nature of his errand; and the course he was about to take,

-      after what had passed between him and his cousin, was, perhaps, a little

-      unwarrantable, and Edith might be inclined to resent it if she knew. But

-      then, he reflected, she need never know. Mr. Santley would surely grant

-      him the favour of keeping the matter a secret; and afterwards, when the

-      shadow of the Church had ceased to darken her life, and she was happy with

-      him in her married home, she would be glad to hear that it was he who had

-      saved her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      These were the kind of rose-coloured visions which filled his brain as he

-      walked on towards the Vicarage, and by the time he had reached the hall

-      door and pulled the bell, he had even converted Mr. Santley into the good

-      fairy of the tale, or rather a sort of Father Christmas, in a surplice,

-      smiling benevolently upon them and pairing their hands. A trim little

-      servant came to the door, and, in answer to his inquiries, informed him

-      that Mr. Santley was not at home. He was expected in immediately, however,

-      if the gentleman would like to wait.. Yes; Walter would wait. So he

-      followed the little maid across the hall, into a somewhat chilly but

-      sufficiently gorgeous room, which was reserved solely for the comfort and

-      convenience of Mr. Santley&rsquo;s guests. As Walter sank down into an

-      easy-chair, the arms of which seemed to enfold him in a close embrace, and

-      looked about the room, he acknowledged that Mr. Santley at least did not

-      give all his substance to the poor. Here at least there was no appearance

-      of penury, or of sackcloth and ashes; all was comfortable and luxurious in

-      the extreme. He walked about the room; examined the books upon the tables,

-      which were all works of education, elegantly bound; noticed the engravings

-      on the walls&mdash;one or two of Raphael&rsquo;s Madonnas (coloured copies), and

-      an old engraving after Andrea del Sarto. Mr. Santley did not come. He rang

-      the bell, gave the little maid his card, told her he would call again, and

-      left the Vicarage.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      This time he walked in the direction of the schoolhouse. He had his

-      sketchbook under his arm, and in it a half-finished sketch of the

-      schoolmistress&rsquo;s picturesque home. He would fill up his spare time by

-      adding a few touches to the sketch before he returned to the Vicarage.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In this matter fortune favoured him. It being Saturday afternoon, there

-      was no school, and the schoolmistress was leaning in a listless attitude

-      upon the low trellised gate. She welcomed the young painter with a nod and

-      a bright smile, and readily assented to his proposition that she should

-      stand for the figure in the picture. He took out his book and set to work.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Dora meanwhile chatted and laughed to make the time pass pleasantly, and

-      sometimes, in answer to an invitation from him, she would run round the

-      easel to take a peep at the figure of herself, which was gradually growing

-      under his hand. At last their pleasant interview was brought to an end.

-      Walter remembered the appointment which this chattering lady had made him

-      forget. He put up his sketching materials, and prepared to take his leave.

-      Then Dora stopped him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Surely, Mr. Hetherington, you will do me one favour,&rdquo; she said: &ldquo;you will

-      honour me by stepping for a moment into the cottage which you have

-      transferred so beautifully to paper. I have some cream and milk, some

-      fresh strawberries from our garden, if that is any inducement to you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The invitation was tempting. Nevertheless, Walter, while wishing to

-      accept, was about to refuse, pleading an engagement at the Vicarage when

-      another voice broke in&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Good day, Miss Greatheart!&rdquo; it said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The schoolmistress smiled, made a prim curtsey, and answered, &ldquo;Good day,

-      sir!&rdquo; Then she waited to see if her visitor had anything more to say.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The new arrival was a man, and Walter, who was looking at him, thought he

-      was the handsomest man he had ever seen in his life. He was dressed as a

-      clergyman, but the cut of his garments-was elegant and eminently becoming.

-      As his eye fell upon Walter he raised his hat, and discovered a head

-      beautifully shaped and slightly thinning at the temples. Walter remained

-      fascinated, staring at the man, who moved here and there with easy grace,

-      and whose face grew singularly handsome with every varying expression

-      which flitted across it.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He had not much to say to the schoolmistress; and as he moved away his hat

-      was again swept off to Walter, and the clergyman&rsquo;s eyes rested upon him

-      for a moment with a look one might love to paint in the eyes of a saint.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Walter turned to Miss Greatheart.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;A handsome fellow,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;&mdash;a very handsome fellow; and a

-      clergyman, I see, by his dress. Who is he? One of Mr. Santley&rsquo;s curates, I

-      suppose?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The schoolmistress stared at him for a moment in amazement.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;One of Mr. Santley&rsquo;s curates!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Why, my dear sir, that is our

-      vicar himself!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XX. IN THE GLOAMING.

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> t was now Walters

-      turn to look amazed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That Mr. Santley!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Why, he is quite a young man!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Of course he is&mdash;and handsome as good, and good as handsome. But

-      won&rsquo;t you come in, Mr. Hetherington, and have some refreshment? It is two

-      hours quite since you opened out your sketch-book at the gate!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      This time Walter accepted her invitation, and followed her into the quaint

-      little parlour, where most of her days were spent. The little maid who

-      attended to the house had got a holiday with the children, and Dora was

-      left to attend to herself that day. Walter was glad of it, since he was

-      left free to sit by the window and follow the train of his thoughts, while

-      Dora busied herself spreading the snowy cloth upon the table, and setting

-      forth her simple fare. When it was ready, he came to the table and ate

-      some strawberries and drank some milk, thinking all the while of Mr.

-      Santley. Presently he spoke of him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You have known Mr. Santley some time, Miss Greatheart?&rdquo; he said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I was schoolmistress here when he came.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;He is a very good man, you said?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, indeed. But it stands to reason that a man with Mr. Santley&rsquo;s gifts

-      must be very good indeed not to get spoiled. In justice to at least half

-      of his congregation, he ought to marry.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why, pray?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why? If he had arrived here with a wife, many a young girl in the village

-      would have been saved a severe heartache. He is a prize in the matrimonial

-      lottery well worth striving for. He is idolized by every female in the

-      village. Now, it is certain he cannot marry them all, and on the day when

-      the happy one is chosen, fancy the hearts that will break!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yours amongst the number?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, sir; I am happy to say I am free. But I take no credit to myself on

-      that account. If I had been idle like some of the young ladies here, there

-      might have been another victim added to the list; but I have so much to do

-      in the school, I have no time to think about the vicar,&rdquo; she added. &ldquo;Have

-      you heard him preach, Mr. Hetherington?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, not yet.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ah, you must go to the church tomorrow. He speaks magnificently, and

-      looks a picture in his robes; besides, his sister, Miss Santley, told me

-      he will wear for the first time to-morrow a new surplice and a magnificent

-      embroidered band, which has been worked for him by Miss Dove!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      At the mention of his cousin&rsquo;s name Walter felt his face flush and his

-      heart leap; but he made no direct reply. He went on eating his

-      strawberries, and turned his face to the open window, as he said&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What have you made for him, Miss Greatheart?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I? Oh, nothing! He has so many beautiful presents from the young ladies

-      in the village that he has no need of them from me, even if I had the time

-      to make them, which I have not; all day I am teaching in the school, and

-      all the evening I am busy preparing lessons for the following day.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Have you always lived here?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not always. My mother was a prison matron at Preston, and we lived

-      together until she died, several years ago; then, through the influence of

-      some friends, I got this place, and have lived here ever since!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Working and striving,&rdquo; added Walter; &ldquo;finding pleasure in things which to

-      some would mean only trouble and irritation. During the holidays do you

-      ever come to London, Miss Greatheart?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No; I generally remain here.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;From choice?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not at all. I should like a change; but then, to go alone to a city where

-      you have no friends, and to parade crowded streets alone, is a holiday

-      which I should not enjoy.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Walter rose to go.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You will come back and finish the sketch on Monday, perhaps?&rdquo; said Dora.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I shall be glad to; I should like, above all, to finish the figure

-      leaning on the gate.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then you must come in the evening. I promise to give you an hour after

-      school hours.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Then Walter shook hands with her and left, taking the way to the inn

-      instead of to the Vicarage. He would make no appeal to the clergyman. The

-      sight of Mr. Santley, so different to the benevolent, elderly gentleman of

-      his imagination, had decided him on that point; it had also brought with

-      it other trouble, for it threw an entirely new light on Edith&rsquo;s religious

-      fervour.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Was it, then, the man or the church, infatuation or fanaticism? He asked

-      himself the question for the first time. Was Edith among the mass of

-      simple girls who were breaking their hearts for his sake? Probably. It

-      remained now for him to watch her, and ascertain the truth.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He went up to the cottage that evening, and regarded Edith with quite a

-      new light in his eyes. She also seemed changed. Her manner was restless

-      and ill at ease; her cheek was flushed. All through the dinner she

-      scarcely touched any food, but glanced furtively at her aunt and cousin.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When the dinner was over, they all retired to the drawing-room as usual.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Here Ediths restlessness asserted itself more strongly. Instead of sitting

-      quietly to her work, as was her usual custom, she flitted restlessly about

-      the room. Presently she declared that she had a terrible headache, and

-      wished her cousin &ldquo;good night.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I have been trying to bear it,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;but it gets worse instead of

-      better. You will excuse me for to-night, Walter, will you not?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      As he took her hand and held it for a moment in his, he felt that it was

-      trembling and very hot. He scarcely believed in the headache, but he

-      deemed silence the most prudent course; so he wished her &ldquo;good night&rdquo;

-       without more ado.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Her aunt rose to go with her to her room, but permission to do so was

-      firmly refused.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      So she went. Mrs. Russell sat down again to her wool-work, and Walter

-      subsided into his chair.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      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&mdash;if, indeed, it

-      was the man, and not religion, which held the girl so entranced&mdash;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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      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&mdash;the

-      close neighbourhood of two figures in earnest conversation&mdash;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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Yes, the voice was Ediths.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Having wished her aunt and cousin &ldquo;good night,&rdquo; 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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The letter was as follows:&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My dear Miss Dove,

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am very sorry to hear that you have been suffering. You will find what

-      you require at Dr. Spruce&rsquo;s surgery. You are right about the time&mdash;nine

-      o&rsquo;clock will do very well.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yours faithfully,

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Charles Santley.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      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 &ldquo;good

-      night.&rdquo; 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&mdash;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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      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&mdash;which

-      she knew, by old experience, well.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A week&rsquo;s reflection, and the frequent sight of Edith&rsquo;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 <i>should</i> 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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Is it you, Edith? Quick! Is it you?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      His quick ear had caught the rustle of her dress on the grass. Even as the

-      words left his lips came the eager answer.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, Charles; I have come!&rdquo; And the girl, forgetting all their quarrels,

-      leapt with a glad cry into his arms.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      For a time no words were spoken. After that one cry of joy, Edith had laid

-      her head upon his shoulder and sobbed as if her heart would break. At this

-      manifestation of hysteria, Santley was not altogether pleased; but he

-      could say nothing, so he clasped his arms firmly about her, and tried to

-      soothe her sorrow. When at last Edith lifted her head from his shoulder he

-      kissed her lips, and whispered to her so gently that the girl&rsquo;s heart beat

-      as gladly as it had done the first day that words like these had been

-      spoken.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;There, there,&rdquo; said the good man, kissing her again, and patting her head

-      like that of a spoilt child. &ldquo;You are better now, my darling; and remember

-      you must not quarrel with me again. You were breaking your little heart

-      for nothing at all.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Part of the girls emotion had communicated itself to him; and for the time

-      being, while he stood there holding her to him, feeling her breath upon

-      her cheek, her clinging arms about his neck, he felt almost as

-      passionately disposed as he had done the first day that he told her of his

-      love. As for Edith, a serene happiness and peace seemed to enter into her

-      soul. They stood thus for some time, exchanging whispered words and fond

-      embraces; then the clergyman told her she had better go. A spot or two of

-      rain had fallen, and the sky was clouding over as if for a storm.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Will you play the organ to-morrow, Edith?&rdquo; he asked, as they moved away

-      together.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, if you wish it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I do wish it, Edith; for when you are playing, it seems as if you were

-      helping me with my work.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Sweet words! She said nothing, but the hand which lay in his pressed his

-      fondly, and he knew that she was pleased.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And will you come to the Vicarage to-morrow afternoon, and have tea with

-      us? I shall be so glad if you will!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He did not add that his sister, wondering all the week at Edith&rsquo;s

-      non-appearance, had threatened repeatedly to call at the cottage, when she

-      would doubtless have elicited something of the truth.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, I cannot come!&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;my cousin, Walter Hetherington, is staying

-      in the village, and so long as he remains here he is to spend the evenings

-      with us. As to-morrow is Sunday, and no work can be done, my aunt has

-      invited him up for the day.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Santley was relieved, very much relieved indeed. He could now give his

-      sister a tangible reason for Edith&rsquo;s absence from the Vicarage, while he

-      himself would be perfectly free to spend the afternoon with Mrs. Haldane.

-      He tried, to suppress the delight which he could not help feeling, and

-      said quietly, &ldquo;Let us hope the young man will make a speedy departure, if

-      he means to monopolize you so much. But that reminds me, Edith, a young

-      man, a Mr. Walter Hetherington, called upon me to-day and left his card. I

-      suppose it is the same?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Of course it is,&rdquo; returned Edith. &ldquo;But what could he want with <i>you?</i>&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t in the least know. Nothing of very great importance, I suppose,

-      since he promised to call again, and never reappeared.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The clergyman paused.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      They had come now to within a short distance of Edith&rsquo;s home. Again, after

-      a furtive look round, he clasped her fondly to him, pressed her lips, and

-      murmured, &ldquo;Good night, my Edith!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Good night,&rdquo; returned the girl, withdrawing herself reluctantly from his

-      embrace. &ldquo;Oh, I am so happy now! You were quite right, dear; another week

-      like the last would have broken my heart!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Thus they parted&mdash;Edith, happy as a child, creeping quickly to the

-      cottage; the good man smiling celestially, and well pleased to have made

-      everything comfortable at little personal inconvenience, walking back to

-      his holy hearth, and thinking of his Sunday sermon.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XXI. IN THE VICARAGE PARLOUR.

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>early 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s home.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      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&mdash;yet his eyes had assured him of the blackness

-      and impurity of her soul. Disappointment was turning his heart to gall.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At last the service was ended: the congregation streamed forth, Walter

-      amongst the rest. The crush was so great he could hardly get along&mdash;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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I saw you in church,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and thought you looked dreadfully pale.

-      Are you not well, Walter?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      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&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I did not see <i>you</i> in church.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, you would not. I was in the organ-room. It is my Sunday for playing,

-      you remember!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      To this he made no reply. He was wondering how it was that Edith could

-      manage so effectually to play such a double part. He expected at least a

-      downcast eye, and a blush of guilt upon her cheek; with this he might have

-      been tolerably satisfied. But Edith&rsquo;s face looked brighter than it had

-      done for many a day.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I forgot to ask you,&rdquo; he said suddenly, &ldquo;if your headache was better.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My headache?&rdquo; she replied. She had been so engrossed with happy thoughts

-      at the reconciliation, that the question took her completely by surprise.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ah yes,&rdquo; she added, suddenly recollecting herself; &ldquo;it is so much better,

-      that I had quite forgotten it. You see what a good night&rsquo;s rest will do!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Walter uttered an impatient sigh, and turned on his heel; while Edith

-      added&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You are coming up to dine with us to-day, you know. Shall we walk

-      together?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am not coming!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not coming? I thought&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, I did accept your aunt&rsquo;s invitation; but I feel upset to-day, and am

-      not fit company for anyone. Will you make my excuses at home?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, certainly I will; and I hope that to-morrow you will be so much

-      better. Good-bye.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She shook hands with him, and tripped away.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      For a time Walter made no attempt to move, but gazed after her with eyes

-      full of sadness and despair. Although he said to himself that henceforth

-      Edith must be nothing to him, he felt pained at the curtness with which

-      she could dismiss him. He had noticed that she had never once attempted to

-      persuade him to alter his decision; indeed, she had not been able to hide

-      from him her delight at hearing it, and he felt very bitter.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He turned from the church, walked away, and, after strolling about for

-      some time he knew not whither, he raised his head and found himself quite

-      close to the schoolmistress&rsquo;s cottage. Dora stood in the doorway,

-      surrounded by her flowers.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She came forward when she saw him, and, after giving him a bright smile

-      and a warm handshake, stood by the gate and continued to talk. She was a

-      wise little woman, and knew exactly what to say and what to leave unsaid;

-      she had been a witness of the interview between the cousins in the

-      churchyard that morning, and her woman&rsquo;s instinct had divined something of

-      the true state of things. So she chatted pleasantly to the young man, and

-      took no notice whatever of his pale cheek and peculiarity of manner; and

-      when he said suddenly, &ldquo;Are you not going to ask me in to-day, Miss

-      Greatheart?&rdquo; she threw open the gate at once, and said that she was sadly

-      neglectful and inhospitable, and that if Mr. Hetherington would like to

-      come in, he would be more than welcome. So he followed her again into the

-      quaint little parlour, and again took his seat by the open window, to gaze

-      with strange, meditative eyes upon the little garden where the sun was

-      shining. It was a ragged little garden enough, and by no means well cared

-      for, since Dora was not rich enough to pay for labour, like her more

-      fortunate neighbours in the village.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      During her leisure hours she worked among the flower-beds until her plump

-      hands ached again; but, after all, her leisure hours were very few, and

-      the grass and weeds grew so quickly. Walter saw that the grass was many

-      inches too long, and that it was scattered thickly with withered

-      rose-leaves; that here and there a rose tree was sadly in want of the

-      pruning knife. But that did not make the scent of the flowers any the less

-      delicious; nor did it take from the quiet beauty of their place. There was

-      plenty of light and colour everywhere, and there was beauty.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      While looking at the garden, Walter began to think of the gardens mistress&mdash;quiet

-      little Dora, living so contented among her children; and in the winter

-      still living here alone, when the flowers had faded, when withered

-      rose-leaves were scattered profusely on the grass, and the leafless

-      branches of the trees bent before the biting breath of the bitter winter

-      wind. It was a pretty picture of Dora&mdash;he loved it as we love the

-      creatures of our imagination; it seemed to make Dora belong to him,

-      artistically, as it were, and bring him consolation. Then his reflections

-      took another turn, and he began, for the first time, to think it strange

-      that the little woman should be so much alone.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He said something of this to Dora; and she laughed and blushed, and

-      answered frankly enough.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, I am a good deal alone. You see, I am in an equivocal position. I am

-      too good for the servants, and not good enough for their mistresses. I am

-      only the governess!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;At any rate,&rdquo; said Walter, &ldquo;you have contrived to brighten up what would

-      otherwise have been a very cheerless visit. As a token of my gratitude,

-      will you accept a little present from me?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I want no present, sir; your friendly words are quite enough.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Nonsense! I should like to give you some of the sketches I have made of

-      the village.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;To me! give them to me?&rdquo; said Dora, with wide-open eyes. &ldquo;Why, Mr.

-      Hetherington, I thought you wanted them to&mdash;to&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;To&mdash;what?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well, to remind you of this visit!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Perhaps when I began them I had some notion of that kind in my head; we

-      are all fools sometimes, you know. But I have changed my mind; I don&rsquo;t

-      want to be reminded of this visit. Yes, I shall give you the sketches&mdash;that

-      is to say, if you will accept them; and when I have taken my departure&mdash;and

-      I shall do so soon&mdash;I shall try to forget that such a village as

-      Omberley ever existed at all.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And the people,&rdquo; said Dora; &ldquo;of course you will try to forget the

-      people?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That is the first thing I shall try to do!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We are most of us selfish in our grief, and Walter was no exception to the

-      rule. Mortified and suffering himself, it never once entered his head that

-      he might be unpolite, and even rude, to another. But the knife entered

-      Dora&rsquo;s little heart, and made her wince. She had been happy in the

-      knowledge that she had met a fellow-creature who could treat her exactly

-      as an equal&mdash;a man whom she could call a friend; and lo! when her

-      interest is strongest, when she has been telling herself that the memory

-      of the few days which he has brightened for ever will linger in her memory

-      and never die, he came to tell her that his first effort would be to

-      forget the place&mdash;and <i>her</i>.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I will take the pictures, if you like, Mr. Hetherington, but merely as a

-      loan. You will change your mind again.. I am convinced that some day you

-      will ask me for them back again, and when you do they shall certainly be

-      yours. But the sketch of the cottage&mdash;is it finished already?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;The sketch of the cottage? Oh, I should like to keep <i>that</i>. It

-      contains the picture of a lady whom I should certainly not like to

-      forget.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Then, while the glad light danced in Dora&rsquo;s eyes again, he rose and took

-      her hand, as he said&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Good-bye, Miss Greatheart. When I said I should forget the village and

-      the people I was wrong. Your kindness and hospitality I shall always

-      remember.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      So he crossed the threshold of the happy little schoolhouse, to stroll out

-      again into the sunshine; and again he thought very bitterly of the woman

-      who had effectually taken all the sunshine from his life.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He need not have thought so bitterly of her. If she had wounded him she

-      was receiving her punishment.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Having left Walter in the churchyard, Edith flew home like one walking on

-      air. She had accepted his decision gleefully, never attempting to alter it

-      by word or look, for she was thinking all the time of the invitation she

-      had received from Mr. Santley, and which had cost her such a pang to

-      refuse. Walter&rsquo;s sudden determination left her free&mdash;free to spend a

-      few hours in the company of the man who was more to her than the whole

-      world. Lighthearted and happy, she hurried home, gave Walter&rsquo;s message to

-      her aunt, and then sat down and made a very hearty meal. After it was

-      over, and a reasonable time had elapsed, she again put on her hat, and

-      told her aunt she was going down to the Vicarage.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I shan&rsquo;t be back till late, aunt,&rdquo; she added, &ldquo;for, as I have to go to

-      the Vicarage, I may as well walk to evening service with Miss Santley. If

-      Walter changes his mind and comes, you will look after him well, won&rsquo;t

-      you?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      And Mrs. Russell, promising implicit obedience, kissed her niece fondly,

-      and watched her go down the road. On reaching the Vicarage, Edith was

-      admitted at once. There was no necessity to take her card and keep her

-      waiting while she ascertained if master or mistress was at home. She was

-      known to the servants as a visitor who was always welcome&mdash;at any

-      rate to the mistress of the house. So, without any preamble at all, she

-      was shown into the sitting-room, and into the presence of Miss Santley.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The room was as luxuriously furnished as any in the Vicarage, and

-      charmingly decorated with the choicest of hothouse flowers. The lady sat

-      in a low wicker chair, with a book in her hand, and at her elbow a little

-      gipsy table, holding a tea-service of Dresden china. The opening of the

-      door disturbed the lady. She let her book fall upon her knee, and looked

-      up dreamily; but the moment her eye fell upon Edith she rose, smiling

-      brightly, gave the girl both her hands, and kissed her fondly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My dear Edith, I am so glad!&rdquo; she exclaimed; and there was a ring of

-      genuine welcome in her voice. &ldquo;Why, you are a perfect stranger.&mdash;Jane,

-      bring a cup for Miss Dove.&mdash;Now, dear, select your chair, take off

-      your hat, and make yourself comfortable.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Edith did as she was bidden. She placed her hat on one of the many little

-      tables with which the room abounded, stood before one of the glasses for a

-      moment to rectify any disarrangement of hair and costume; then she drew

-      forth a little wicker chair similar to that occupied by her hostess, and

-      sat down. By this time the teapot was brought in, and the tea poured, so

-      Edith sat and sipped it, talking and laughing meanwhile like a happy

-      child.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well, dear,&rdquo; said Miss Santley, &ldquo;and what have you been doing with

-      yourself all the week? Charles tells me you have a cousin in the village,

-      who completely monopolizes you. By the way, he told me that he had tried

-      to persuade you to come to tea to-day, but that you had positively

-      refused. That could not have been true.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, it was true,&rdquo; returned Edith. &ldquo;I did refuse when he asked me,

-      because I thought I could not come. I thought my cousin would dine with us

-      as usual; but I met him at church this morning, and he said he was rather

-      unwell and could not come. So I thought it would not matter if I came

-      after all.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Matter! My dear, I am delighted.&rdquo; And so, having thus satisfactorily

-      arranged matters, the two sat chatting to their hearts&rsquo; content.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was very pleasant, exceedingly pleasant&mdash;at any other time Edith

-      would have enjoyed it hugely; but as the hands of the bronze clock on the

-      chimneypiece travelled so quickly round, she began to grow uneasy, and to

-      wonder at the protracted absence of her lover. Miss Santley was a very

-      pleasant person indeed, and Edith was very fond of her; but it had been a

-      stronger inducement than Miss Santley that had brought her to the Vicarage

-      that afternoon. Santley must know she was in the house, thought Edith; it

-      was strange he did not come.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Suddenly Miss Santley glanced at the clock. In a moment she was on her

-      feet.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My dear,&rdquo; she exclaimed, &ldquo;how the time has flown! Do you play again

-      to-night?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The lady nodded.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well walk to church together, dear,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Amuse yourself by looking

-      at the books, while I run away to get my bonnet and mantle on.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Ere the lady had reached the door of the room, Edith spoke. Prolonged

-      disappointment had given her courage.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Mr. Santley is busy, I suppose?&rdquo; she said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Mr. Santley&mdash;Charles? Oh, my dear, he&rsquo;s not at home!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not at home?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;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

-      &lsquo;How do you do&rsquo;? If he had known you had been coming, of course he would

-      have stayed in; but he didn&rsquo;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.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Miss Santley was near the door. The moment she had finished speaking she

-      passed out of the room, and left Edith alone.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      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&rsquo;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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ready, dear?&rdquo; she asked brightly; then she paused, amazed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why, my dear!&rdquo; exclaimed Miss Santley. &ldquo;Whatever is the matter? Has

-      anything happened?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, nothing,&rdquo; said Edith, faintly. &ldquo;I have got a very bad headache, that

-      is all; and&mdash;and&mdash;I cannot go to church again to-day, Miss

-      Santley.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Go to church,&rdquo; echoed Miss Santley. &ldquo;Why, my dearest girl, of course you

-      cant go to church! I will send Jane with a message to Charles, and stay

-      and take care of you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      But this Edith would not allow. She pulled the handkerchief from her

-      forehead, and declared her intention of going home.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Miss Santley kissed her kindly. At this exhibition of tenderness Edith

-      fairly broke down. She threw her arms around the lady&rsquo;s neck, and burst

-      into tears.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&mdash;I am so sorry,&rdquo; she said at last, when her sobs had somewhat

-      subsided; &ldquo;but I could not help it. I&mdash;I am such a coward when I am

-      ill!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Miss Santley said nothing; she knew she could do nothing. There was some

-      mystery here which she could not fathom, so she yielded to the girl&rsquo;s

-      solicitations and allowed her to go home.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XXII. AT THE VICARAGE.

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>ne evening about

-      the middle of the week, as the Rev. Mr. Santley sat alone in his study a

-      card was brought to him, on which was printed&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Mr. Walter Hetherington.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The clergyman raised his brows as he read, and asked the maid, who waited

-      respectfully at the door, if the gentleman had not called upon him before.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Once before, sir!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Did he state his business?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;He did not, sir; he only said he would not detain you long.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well, ask the gentleman to be good enough to walk this way.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The maid retired, and a moment afterwards Walter entered the room.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The two men bowed to each other. One glance had assured Santley that any

-      attempt at a warmer greeting would be injudicious; the other might not

-      respond, and it would never do for the vicar of the parish to be snubbed

-      by an itinerant painter whom nobody knew&mdash;besides, under the

-      circumstances, a bow was ample greeting. He infused into it as much

-      politeness as possible, welcomed his young friend to the Vicarage, and,

-      pointing to a chair which he had drawn forward, begged him to be seated.

-      Decidedly the clergyman was the most self-possessed of the two. For Walter

-      took his seat in nervous silence; while Santley, wondering greatly in his

-      own mind what could possibly have procured him the honour of that visit,

-      kept the scene from flagging by that wonderful gift of small talk with

-      which he was possessed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He was very pleased indeed to meet Mr. Hetherington. He had done him the

-      honour to call upon him once before he thought&mdash;yes, he was sure of

-      it; and he had also had the pleasure of meeting him once before, when he

-      had not had the honour of his acquaintance. Was Mr. Hetherington thinking

-      of making a long stay amongst them?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not very long,&rdquo; said Walter.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I suppose you have made some charming sketches?&rdquo; continued the clergyman.

-      &ldquo;There are pretty little spots about the village, spots well worthy of a

-      painters brush. I used to do a little in that way myself when I was a

-      youngster at college; but the vicar of a parish has onerous duties. I

-      suppose at the present moment I should hardly know how to handle a brush.

-      Are you thinking of leaving us soon, Mr. Hetherington?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am not quite sure!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ah! well, if you stay and would like to make use of my library, I should

-      feel greatly honoured. It is the only thing I have to offer you, I fear;

-      but I shall be very pleased indeed to put it at your service. It contains

-      a few books on your own art, which might interest you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You are very kind, Mr. Santley.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not at all, my dear sir; I am merely neighbourly. Life would be dreary

-      indeed if one could not be neighbourly in a place like this!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Mr. Santley, I have come to you for your advice.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The clergyman, nervously dreading what was to follow, looked at his

-      visitor with a calm smile, and answered pleasantly enough.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My advice? My dear sir, I place it freely at your service, and myself

-      also if I can be of the slightest use to you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You can be of very great use to me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The clergyman merely bowed this time and waited, so Walter continued&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You know my cousin, Miss Edith Dove?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      As he spoke he fixed his eyes keenly upon the clergyman&rsquo;s face, but the

-      latter made no sign; he neither winced nor changed colour, but answered

-      calmly enough.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I have the pleasure of the lady&rsquo;s acquaintance. She is one of the most

-      esteemed members of my congregation.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It is about Miss Dove I wished to speak to you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Again the clergyman bowed; again he found it unnecessary to make a reply.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Walter, growing somewhat ill at ease, continued&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t mind confessing to you, Mr. Santley, that at one period of my

-      career I hoped most earnestly, and indeed confidently believed, that at no

-      very remote date I should have the happiness of making her my wife. I was

-      sincerely attached to her; I believe she was attached to me. But recently

-      all has changed. She is wasting her life; throwing aside all chance of

-      happiness, through some mad infatuation about the Church.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Some mad infatuation about the Church!&rdquo; returned the clergyman,

-      methodically. &ldquo;Really, my dear sir, I am afraid you forget you are

-      speaking to a clergyman of the Church. As to Miss Dove, she is a lady

-      whose conduct is without reproach; she is one of the Church&rsquo;s staunchest

-      supporters!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then you approve her present mode of life; you uphold it? You will not

-      advise her to shake her morbid fancies away? to accept an honest affection

-      and a happy home?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Santley seemed to reflect.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;As a clergyman of the Church, I should advise her the other way, I think.

-      Surely the fulfilment of religious duties points to a more elevated mode

-      of existence than mere marrying and giving in marriage. I am sorry for

-      you, since I believe that any man possessed of that lady&rsquo;s esteem might

-      deem himself fortunate; still, I could not advise her to act against her

-      conscience and the promptings of religion.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And me, what do you advise me to do?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The clergyman shrugged his shoulders. &ldquo;It seems to me that there is only

-      one thing that you can do. If the lady finds your attentions disagreeable,

-      surely the most honourable course for you to adopt would be to leave her&mdash;in

-      peace.&rdquo; Walter rose, and the clergyman breathed more freely, believing

-      that the interview had come to a satisfactory end. Neither of them spoke

-      for a minute or so, till the clergyman looked up, and said quietly&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You have something more to say, Mr. Hetherington?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; 9 answered Walter; &ldquo;I have something more to say.&rdquo; Then, going a

-      few steps nearer to the clergyman, he added, &ldquo;You are a hypocrite, Mr.

-      Santley!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The clergyman&rsquo;s face grew pale. He rose hastily from his seat; but before

-      he could speak Walter continued, vehemently&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Do you think I don&rsquo;t know you? Do you think I haven&rsquo;t discovered that it

-      is you, and not the Church, who has taken my cousin from me? You talk to

-      me of religion, of religious duties, and yet you know that you are playing

-      the hypocrite to her, as you have done to me, and that you are breaking

-      her heart.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He paused, flushed, excited, and angry. The clergyman stood calm and very

-      pale.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You do well to seek this interview in my house, sir,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Now you

-      have insulted me with impunity, perhaps you will take your leave.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      But Walter made no attempt to move.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Before I go,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I wish to know what are your plans regarding my

-      cousin?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And I should like to ask you, sir,&rdquo; returned the clergyman, &ldquo;what

-      authority you have for interfering in my private affairs?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I have no authority; your private affairs are nothing to me. I speak in

-      the interest of my cousin!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Really! I should fancy your interference would be hardly likely to do her

-      much good.&rdquo; #

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Mr. Santley, I shall ask you one more question. Do you, or do you not,

-      mean to marry my cousin?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And if I refuse to answer?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I shall make it my duty, before tomorrow night, to expose you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Really!&rdquo; returned the clergyman, with an exasperating smile. &ldquo;You will

-      draw your cousin&rsquo;s good name through the mire in order to throw a little

-      mud at me. I should think, young man, you must be a treasure to your

-      family. Good evening. I will ring for the servant to show you out.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      And he did ring&mdash;at the most opportune moment too; for Walter,

-      staggered by that last thrust, perceived that his enemy was on the side of

-      power. So, when in answer to her master&rsquo;s summons the servant appeared,

-      Walter followed her; he was afraid to utter another word, for Edith&rsquo;s

-      sake.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When he was gone, all Santley&rsquo;s calmness deserted him, and he walked up

-      and down the room in a fit of uncontrollable rage. When he had grown

-      calmer, he sat down and wrote one of his neatly worded epistles to Edith,

-      making an appointment for the following day.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He half believed that Walter had come to him, as Edith&rsquo;s authorized

-      messenger, to attempt to force upon him those bonds which he was so very

-      reluctant to wear. The clergyman could not in any other way account for

-      his knowledge of the relations existing between the two. It was well for

-      Edith that at that moment she was not near her lover&mdash;well for her,

-      also, that no meeting could take place between them until the following

-      day.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The next day Santley was very much more composed, and when he walked

-      towards the trysting-place none would have known, from his outward

-      appearance, that anything was materially wrong. He had made the

-      appointment in daylight this time; since embraces could be dispensed with,

-      so also could darkness and night. There was really nothing in this meeting

-      after all; nothing but what might have been witnessed by a dozen pair of

-      eyes. Those who did see it would see only an event of ordinary everyday

-      life.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Miss Edith Dove, walking leisurely towards the village, was overtaken by

-      the clergyman, who paused to shake hands with her, and to walk with her a

-      part of the way. Had any one looked closely at these two, he would have

-      seen that the clergyman, though calm, was very pale; that Edith, pale too,

-      had a weary, listless look about her face; that after she had shaken hands

-      with her pastor, she quickly turned away her head, for her eyes grew dim

-      with tears.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      If Santley saw the tears he did not care to notice them. He had found,

-      directly they met, that she was suffering from one of those deplorable

-      fits of temper which had more than once caused trouble between them; but

-      that could not be taken any notice of now. If she chose to wear herself to

-      a shadow, it was her own affair; he had something more important on hand.

-      The interview could not be a long one, therefore he must reach the heart

-      of the matter at once.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      So he began abruptly&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Edith, this new course you have adopted is a dangerous one, and had

-      better be abandoned without loss of time.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The girl raised her eyes to his face, and asked wearily&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What do you mean? What have I done?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I suppose you are responsible for your cousin&rsquo;s visit to my house; you

-      must have instigated it, if you did not actually advise him!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Again she raised her troubled eyes to his face, and said sadly&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know what you mean.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then I will tell you, Edith. Your cousin, a hot-headed, ill-mannered

-      youth, has thought fit to take upon himself the part of protector, or

-      guardian, of your happiness. In this capacity he paid me a domiciliary

-      visit yesterday, and treated me to some most violent abuse. He threatened

-      to make known to the public the relations between us. I advised him to

-      think it over, for your sake!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My cousin&mdash;Walter Hetherington, do you mean?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Most certainly.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But how does he know? how has he learned?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;From you, I suppose.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No; it is not from me,&rdquo; returned Edith, whose listlessness was fast

-      disappearing. &ldquo;I have said nothing; I have never even mentioned your name

-      to him. It must be known; it must be talked of in the village. Oh,

-      Charles, spare me! Keep your promise to me, for God&rsquo;s sake! Any open

-      disgrace would be more than I could bear. I should die.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The girl, overcome by her emotion, had forgotten for the moment that their

-      present interview was a perfectly public one. The clergyman coldly

-      reminded her of the fact. Then, after she had forced upon herself a

-      composure which she was far from feeling, he continued&mdash;&ldquo;You had

-      better understand, Edith, once and for ever, that whatever my conduct may

-      be, I do not choose to have it questioned by this exceedingly officious

-      young man. A repetition of the scene of yesterday I will not bear. And as

-      it is evident to me that my actions are under surveillance, I must refuse

-      either to see or hear from you again, until that young man has removed

-      himself from the village.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Charles, you surely don&rsquo;t mean that?&rdquo; exclaimed the girl.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      But he certainly did mean it, and though she pleaded and argued, he

-      remained firm. At last she resolved that she would speak to Walter, resent

-      his interference, and, if possible, induce him to return home.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Then the two shook hands and parted.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      That evening Walter dined at the-cottage. During the dinner Edith scarcely

-      looked at him; while he himself was silent and distrait. But after dinner,

-      when they had all retired to the drawing-room, when the old lady had

-      settled down to her wool-work, and Walter had lit his cigar, Edith threw a

-      light shawl over her head, and asked him if he would come with her into

-      the garden.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Wondering very much at the request, Walter rose at once, and offered her

-      his arm. She took it; but the moment they were alone she withdrew her hand

-      and turned angrily upon him. Walter listened, and he found that he had

-      some chance of being heard. He acknowledged that she had spoken the truth;

-      he <i>had</i> interfered; he had deemed it quite right that he should do

-      so for her sake.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;For my sake!&rdquo; returned Edith. &ldquo;It seems to me there is more of

-      selfishness than benevolence in what you have done. What is it to you if I

-      am engaged to Mr. Santley? and if we choose to keep our engagement a

-      secret, what is that to you? I am my own mistress; I can act just as I

-      think fit, without the fear of coercion from any one. <i>You</i>, at any

-      rate, have no right to regulate my actions or to dictate them. I suppose

-      you think I have no right to marry any one, simply because I refuse to be

-      coerced into marrying you!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      It was a cruel thing to say; but Edith was simply dealing him, secondhand,

-      some of the stabs which she herself had received from her beloved pastor

-      in the morning. The stabs went deep into his heart, and the wounds

-      remained for many a day. When Edith had uttered a few more truisms with

-      the characteristic selfishness of love and hatred, Walter coldly suggested

-      that their pleasant stroll in the garden might be brought to a

-      termination.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      They returned together to the house. As the old lady, beaming with delight

-      at what she believed to be the sudden and happy reconciliation of the

-      cousins, had prepared the tea, Walter pleased her by sitting down to take

-      some before he said good night.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      But the next day he returned to town.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XXIII. DR. DUPRÉ&rsquo;S ELIXIR.

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">G</span>eorge Haldane

-      returned home in the best of spirits. His paper had been received with

-      enthusiasm by the <i>savants</i> of France, and his life in Paris had been

-      one pleasant succession of visits, learned conversaziones, and private

-      entertainments. Thanks to his happy pre-occupation, he scarcely noticed

-      that his wife&rsquo;s manner was constrained, nervous, yet deeply solicitous;

-      that she looked pale and worn, as if with constant watching; and that, in

-      answer to his careless questioning as to affairs at home, she made only

-      fragmentary replies.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      On entering his dressing-room to change his apparel, he found Baptisto,

-      who was quietly undoing his portmanteau and selecting the necessary things

-      with a calm air, as if his services had never been interrupted.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;So, my Baptisto,&rdquo; he said, clapping that worthy on the shoulder, &ldquo;you are

-      not dead or buried, I see? Ah, you may smile, but I am quite aware of the

-      trick you played me. Well, you have been the loser. You would have had a

-      pleasant time of it in Paris, the best of entertainment, and nothing

-      whatever to do.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am glad you have returned, senor,&rdquo; replied Baptisto, with his customary

-      solemnity.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I hope you have given satisfaction to your mistress during my absence?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I hope so, senor.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Humph! we shall see what report she has to make concerning you, and if

-      that is favourable, I may forgive your freak of laziness.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I have not been lazy, senor,&rdquo; said Baptisto, quietly preparing the

-      toilette.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Indeed! Pray, how have you been employing yourself?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Baptisto did not reply, but smiled again.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;How is your inamerata and her family? I saw the little woman curtsying as

-      I passed through the lodge-gates.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Baptisto shook his head solemnly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ah, senor,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you are mistaken. The woman of the lodge is a

-      stupid person; and for the rest, I put no faith in women. <i>Cuerpo di

-      Baccho</i>, no! They smile upon us when we are near; but no sooner do we

-      turn our backs, than they smile upon some other man.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Pretty philosophy,&rdquo; returned Haldane, with a laugh. &ldquo;Why, you are a

-      downright misogynist, my Baptisto. But I don&rsquo;t believe one word you say,

-      for all that. Men who talk like you are generally very easy conquests, and

-      I would bet twenty to one on the little widow still.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ah, senor, if all women were like your signora, it would be different.

-      She is so good, so pure, so faithful at her devotions. It is a great thing

-      to have religion.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      As Baptisto spoke his back was turned to his master, so that the

-      extraordinary expression of his face was unnoticed, and there was no

-      indication in his tone that he spoke satirically. Haldane shrugged his

-      shoulders and said nothing, not caring to discuss his wife&rsquo;s virtues with

-      a servant, however familiar. Presently he went downstairs to dinner. All

-      that evening he was very affectionate and merry, talking volubly of his

-      adventures in Paris, of his scientific acquaintances, and of such new

-      discoveries as they had brought under his notice. In the course of his

-      happy chat he spoke frequently of a new acquaintance, one Dr. Dupré, whom

-      he had met in the French capital. &ldquo;The French, however far behind the

-      Germans in speculative affairs,&rdquo; he observed, &ldquo;are far their superiors,

-      and ours, in physiology. Take this Dupré, for example. He is a wonderful

-      fellow! His dissections and vivisections&rsquo; have brought him to such a point

-      of mastery that he is almost certain that he has discovered the problem

-      poor Lewes broke his heart over&mdash;how and by what mechanism we can&rsquo;t

-      think. I don&rsquo;t quite believe he has succeeded in that great discovery, but

-      some of his minor discoveries are extraordinary. Did you read the account

-      in the papers of his elixir of death?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Ellen shook her head. The very name seemed horrible.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;His elixir of death?&rdquo; she repeated.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes. A chemical preparation, the fundamental principle of which is

-      morphine. By its agency he can so produce in a living organism the

-      ordinary phenomena of death, that even <i>rigor mortis</i> is simulated. I

-      saw the experiment tried on two rabbits, a Newfoundland dog, and, to crown

-      all, on the human subject. They were all, to every appearance, dead; the

-      rabbits for twenty-four hours, the dog for half a day, and the woman for

-      an hour and a half.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Horrible!&rdquo; exclaimed Ellen, with a shudder. &ldquo;Do you actually mean he

-      experimented on a living woman?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes; on a strapping wench, the daughter of his housekeeper; and a very

-      fine thing she made of it. We subscribed together, and presented her with

-      a purse of a thousand francs.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I think such things are wicked,&rdquo; cried Ellen, with some warmth. &ldquo;Mere

-      mortals have no right to play, in that way, with the mystery of life and

-      death.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My dear Nell,&rdquo; cried Haldane, laughing, &ldquo;it is in the interests of

-      science!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But I am sure it is not right. Life is given and taken by God alone.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Your argument, if accepted, would make all mankind accept the religion of

-      the Peculiar People, who will cure no diseases by human intervention. As

-      to this business of suspended animation, it is merely a part of our

-      discoveries in anodynes. Dupré&rsquo;s experiment, I know, is perfectly safe.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But that is not the question.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;How so, my dear?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What I mean is, that death is too solemn and awful a thing to imitate as

-      you describe. Such experiments are simply blasphemous, in my opinion.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Come, come,&rdquo; cried the philosopher. &ldquo;There is no blasphemy where there is

-      no irreverence. According to your religious people, your priests of the

-      churches, there was blasphemy in circumnavigating the globe; in

-      discovering the circulation of the blood; in ascertaining the age of the

-      earth; and, still later, in using chloroform to lessen the pangs of

-      parturition.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But what purpose can be served by such experiments as <i>that?</i>&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;A good many,&rdquo; was the reply. &ldquo;For example, it may help us to the

-      discovery of the nature of life itself, which has puzzled everybody, from

-      Parmenides down to Haeckel. If we can by a simple anodyne suspend the

-      vital mechanism for a period, and then by a vegetable antidote restore it

-      again to action, the resurrection of Lazarus will cease to be a miracle,

-      and the pretensions of Christianity&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Ellen rose impatiently, with an expression of sincere pain.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My dear Nell, what is the matter?&rdquo; cried her husband.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I cannot bear to hear you discuss such a thing. Oh, George, if you would

-      leave such wicked speculations alone, and try to believe in the mystery

-      and sovereignty of God!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You mean, burn my books, and go to hear your seraphic friend every

-      Sunday?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Had he not touched, unconsciously, on another painful chord? Why,

-      otherwise, did his wife flush scarlet and partially avert her face?

-      Conquering herself with an effort, she went over to him, and bending over

-      him, looked fondly into his face.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You are so much cleverer than I, so much wiser, and do you think I am not

-      proud of your wisdom? But, all the same, dear, I wish you did not think as

-      you do. When life becomes a mere experiment, a mere thing of mechanism,

-      what will be left? If we knew everything, even what we are, and why we

-      exist, the world would be a tomb&mdash;with no place in it for the Living

-      God.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Touched by her manner, Haldane drew her down by his side and kissed her;

-      then, with more earnestness than he had yet exhibited, he answered her,

-      holding her hand in his own and pressing it softly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My dear Nell, do me the justice to believe that I am not quite a

-      materialist; simple agnosticism is the very converse of materialism. There

-      is not living a scientific philosopher of any eminence who does not, in

-      his calculations, postulate a mystery which can never be solved by the

-      finest intellect. Even if we had fully completed, with the poet&mdash;=

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The new creed of science, which showeth to man

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      How he darkly began,

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      How he grew from a cell to a soul, without plan;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      How he breaks like a wave of the ocean, and goes

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      To eternal repose&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A tone that must fade, tho&rsquo; the great Music grows! &lsquo;=

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      even then, we should know nothing of the First Cause. That must for ever

-      remain inscrutable.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But how horrible it would be to believe in annihilation? <i>Can</i> you

-      believe in it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Certainly not,&rdquo; replied the philosopher.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Ellens face brightened.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Oh, I am so glad to hear you say that!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My dear Nell, annihilation is absurd.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Now, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo; she cried triumphantly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It is refuted, on the face of it, by the doctrine of the conservation of

-      force. Life is eternal, in one shape or another; no force can be

-      destroyed, be sure of that!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I wish Mr. Santley could hear you! He wouldn&rsquo;t call you an atheist then!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane&rsquo;s face darkened angrily.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What? Does the man actually&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t misunderstand,&rdquo; cried Ellen, flushing scarlet. &ldquo;I do not mean that

-      he really calls you an atheist, but he is so sorry, so deeply sorry, that

-      you do not believe. He does not know you, dear, and takes all my bear&rsquo;s

-      satirical growling for solemn earnest. Now, when I tell him&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You will tell him nothing,&rdquo; exclaimed Haldane, with sudden sternness. &ldquo;I

-      will have no priest coming between my wife and me!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Mr. Santley would never do that,&rdquo; she returned, now trembling violently.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Mr. Santley is like all his tribe, I suppose&mdash;a meddler and a

-      mischief-maker. That is the worst of other-worldliness; it gives these

-      traders in the Godhead, these peddlers who would give us in exchange for

-      belief in their superstitions a <i>bonus</i> in paradise, an excuse for

-      making this world unbearable. Well, my atheism, if you choose to call it

-      so, against his theism. Mine at least keeps me a man among men, while his

-      keeps him a twaddler among women.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane spoke with heat, for the word &ldquo;atheist&rdquo; had somehow stung him to

-      the quick. This man, who rejected all outward forms of belief, and whose

-      conversation was habitually ironical, was in his inmost nature deeply and

-      sincerely religious; humbly reverent before the forces of nature;

-      spiritually conscious of that Power beyond ourselves which makes for

-      righteousness. True, he rejected the ordinary forms of theism; but he had,

-      on the other hand, a deep though dumb reverence for the character of

-      Christ, and he had no sympathy with such out-and-out materialists as

-      Haeckel and <i>hoc genus omne</i>. For the rest, he was liberal-minded,

-      and had no desire to interfere with his wife&rsquo;s convictions; could smile a

-      little at her simplicity, and would see no harm in her clerical

-      predispositions, so long as the clergyman didn&rsquo;t encroach too far on the

-      domain of married life and domestic privacy.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      His indignation did not last. Seeing his wife greatly agitated, and

-      fearing that he had caused her pain, he drew her forehead down and kissed

-      it; then, patting her cheek, he said&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Forgive me, Nell. I did not mean to scold; but one does not like hard

-      names. When any one calls me &lsquo;atheist,&rsquo; I am like the old woman whom

-      Cobbett called a &lsquo;parallelogram;&rsquo; it is not the significance of the

-      epithet, but its opprobrium, that rouses me. Besides, I do not like any

-      man to abuse me&mdash;to my own wife.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No one does that,&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;You know I would not listen.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I hope not, my dear.&rdquo; He added after a little, looking at her

-      thoughtfully and sadly, &ldquo;Man and wife have fallen asunder before now, on

-      this very question of religion. Well, rather than that should happen, I

-      will let you convert me. Will that satisfy you?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I shall never be quite satisfied till I know that you believe as I do.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What is that, pray?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That there is a just God, who made and cherishes us; and that, through

-      the blood of His Son we shall live again although we die!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well, it is a beautiful creed, my dear.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And true?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why not? I will go with you thus far. I believe that, if there is a God,

-      He is just, and that we shall certainly live again, if it is for our

-      good.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The emphasis with which he spoke the last words attracted her attention.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;For our good?&rdquo; she queried.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am quoting the saddest words ever written, by the saddest and best man

-      I ever knew. * He, too, believed that a God might spare us, and give us

-      eternal life, if&mdash;mark the proviso&mdash;eternal life were indeed <i>for

-      our good.</i> But suppose the contrary&mdash;suppose God knew better, and

-      that it would be an evil and unhappy gift? Alas! who knows?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-<pre xml:space="preserve">

-     *  J. S. Mill.

-</pre>

-    <p>

-      He rose from his chair, still encircling his wife&rsquo;s waist, and moved

-      towards the door.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Come to the drawing-room,&rdquo; he cried gaily. &ldquo;After so much offhand

-      theology, a little music will be delightful. Ah, Nell, one breath of

-      Beethoven is worth all the prosings of your parsons. Play to me, and,

-      while the music lasts, I will believe what you will.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XXIV. THE EXPERIMENT.

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he next morning

-      Haldane was busy in his laboratory. When he came in to lunch, looking

-      disreputable enough in his old coat, and smelling strongly of tobacco, he

-      said to his wife&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;By-the-by, Nell, do you remember what I told you last night about Dupré&rsquo;s

-      wonderful elixir? I forgot to tell you that I have brought some of it with

-      me, for purposes of private experiment.&rdquo; Ellen looked horrified.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be afraid,&rdquo; he continued, laughing; &ldquo;your cats and dogs are safe

-      from me. I have found a better subject, and mean to operate on him this

-      very afternoon.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Whom do you mean?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;As a sort of penance for his shamming illness, I shall kill Baptisto.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She uttered a cry, and raised her hands in protest.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;For heavens sake, George, be warned! If you have any of that horrible

-      stuff, throw it away.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Now, my dear Nell,&rdquo; said the philosopher, &ldquo;be reasonable; there is not

-      the slightest cause for alarm. You will see this experiment, and it will,

-      I hope, treble your faith in miracles.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I will <i>not</i> see it. I beseech you, abandon the idea. As for

-      Baptisto&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      At this moment the Spaniard entered the room, carrying certain dishes.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I have been telling your mistress, Baptisto, that you are ready to be a

-      martyr to science. At four o&rsquo;clock precisely, you will be a dead man.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Baptisto bowed solemnly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am quite ready, senor.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      But here Ellen interposed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It is ridiculous; your master is only joking. He would not do anything so

-      foolish, so wicked. As for you, I forbid you to encourage him.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Baptisto bowed again, with a curious smile.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It is for the senor to command. As he knows, he has saved my life, and he

-      may take it whenever he pleases.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane nodded, in the act of drinking a glass of wine.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be afraid, Baptisto. After death, there is the resurrection.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That, senor, is your affair,&rdquo; returned the Spaniard, phlegmatically,

-      shrugging his shoulders. &ldquo;You will do with me as you please.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      And so saying, he glided from the room.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Ellen again and again entreated her husband not to proceed in his

-      experiment; but he had long made up his mind that it was perfectly safe,

-      and he could not be persuaded. To her gentle: spirit, the whole idea

-      seemed horrible in the extreme; but her greatest dread was that it might

-      be attended with danger to the subject. Haldane, however, assured her that

-      this was impossible.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      All the afternoon Haldane and Baptisto were together in the laboratory. A

-      little after four o&rsquo;clock, as Ellen was walking on the terrace, Haldane

-      came to her, smiling and holding up a small vial.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It is all over,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and the experiment is quite successful. Come

-      and see.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Not quite understanding him, she suffered him to lead her into the

-      laboratory; but, on crossing the threshold, she uttered a cry of horror.

-      Stretched on a sofa, lay Baptisto, moveless, and, to all seeming, without

-      one breath of life. His eyes were wide open, but rayless; his jaw fixed,

-      his face pale as grey marble; a peaceful smile, as of death itself, upon

-      his handsome face. The light of the sun, just sinking towards the west,

-      streamed in through the high window upon the apparently lifeless form. In

-      the chamber itself there was a sickly smell, like that of some suffocating

-      vapour. The whole scene would have startled and appalled even a strong

-      man.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Oh, George!&rdquo; cried the lady, clasping her hands. &ldquo;What have you done?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be alarmed,&rdquo; was the reply, &ldquo;Its all right!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But you said the experiment&mdash;&mdash;-

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Was successful? Perfectly. There lies our poor friend, comfortably

-      finished.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But are you sure, quite sure, that he is not dead? He is not breathing.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Of course not. The simulation is perfect. Place your hand on his wrist&mdash;you

-      will detect no pulse. Turn his pupils to the light&mdash;you see, they do

-      not contract. The case would deceive a whole college of physicians.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      As he spoke, he suited the action to the word&mdash;placed his finger upon

-      the pulse, gazed at the glazing pupils; raised one of the lifeless arms,

-      which, on being released, fell heavily as lead.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Horrible, horrible! For God&rsquo;s sake, recover him!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;All in good time. He has only been dead a quarter of an hour; in half an

-      hour precisely I shall say, &lsquo;Arise and walk.&rsquo; Feel his forehead, Nell; it

-      is as cold as marble.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      But Ellen drew back, shuddering, and could not be persuaded to touch the

-      sleeper.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well, go back to your promenade. I will call you when he is awakened.&rdquo;

-       Sick and terrified, Ellen obeyed her husband. Standing on the terrace, she

-      waited for his summons; and at last it came. Haldane appeared, and

-      beckoned; she followed him to the laboratory, and there, seated in an

-      armchair, comfortably sipping a glass of wine, was the Spaniard&mdash;a

-      little pale still, but otherwise not the worse for his state of coma.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Thank God!&rdquo; cried Ellen.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I thought he would never recover. But it must have been a horrible

-      experience.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Baptisto smiled.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Tell the signora all about it,&rdquo; said his master. &ldquo;Did you feel any pain?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;None, senor.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What were your sensations? Pleasant or otherwise?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Quite pleasant, senor. It was like sinking into an agreeable sleep. If

-      death is like that, it is a bagatelle.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Were you at all conscious?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not of this world, senor, but I had bright dreams of another. I thought I

-      was in paradise, walking in the sunshine&mdash;ah, so bright! I was sorry,

-      senor, when I came back to this world.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You hear!&rdquo; cried Haldane, turning to his wife. &ldquo;After all, death itself

-      may be a glorious experience; for &lsquo;in that sleep of death what dreams may

-      come!&rsquo; It is quite clear at least that all the phenomena of death, such as

-      we shrink from and shudder at, may be accompanied by some kind of pleasant

-      psychic consciousness. Bravo, Baptisto! After this, we shall call you

-      Lazarus the second. You have passed beyond the shadow of the sepulchre,

-      and returned to tell the tale.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Despite the resuscitation, Ellen still revolted from the whole proceeding.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Now you are satisfied,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;promise me never to use that dreadful

-      elixir again.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I think you may make your mind easy. The experiment is an ugly one, I

-      admit, and I am not anxious to repeat it&mdash;at least, not on the human

-      organism. For the same reason, my dear Nell, pray keep the affair to

-      yourself, and make no confidences, even to your confessor&mdash;I should

-      say, your clergyman, Will you promise?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Most certainly. I should not like any one to know you did such things. As

-      for Mr. Santley, he would be shocked beyond measure.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      So saying, she left the two men together. In the mean time, Baptisto

-      had-finished his wine and risen to his feet. While his master regarded him

-      with an approving smile, he walked over to the door, softly closed it, and

-      returning noiselessly across the room, said in a low voice&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;There is something, senor, I did not tell you. I had dreams.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;So you said, my Baptisto.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ah yes, but not all. While I was lying there, I thought that <i>you</i>

-      were the dead man, and that the senora, your widow, had married.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Married?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;The English priest.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane started, and looked in amazement at the speaker.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What the devil do you mean?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ah, senor, it was only my dream; a foolish dream. You were lying in your

-      winding-sheet, and they were kneeling at the altar&mdash;smiling, senor. I

-      did not like to speak of it to the senora; but it was very strange.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane forced a laugh, while, with a mysterious look, Baptisto crept from

-      the chamber. Was it in sheer simplicity or in deep cunning that the

-      Spaniard had spoken, touching so delicate a chord? Left alone, Haldane

-      paced up and down the laboratory in agitation. He was not by temperament a

-      jealous or a suspicious man, but he was troubled in spite of himself. The

-      words sounded like a warning, almost an insinuation.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What could the fellow mean?&rdquo; he asked himself again and again. &ldquo;Could he

-      possibly have dreamed <i>that?</i> No; it is preposterous. There was

-      malice in his eye, and mischief.... Ellen married to Santley! Bah! what am

-      I thinking about? The fellow is not a <i>prophet!</i>&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      In this manner, whether in innocence or for some set purpose of his own,

-      Baptisto contrived to poison all the sweetness of that successful

-      experiment. When Haldane again joined his wife that evening, he was

-      taciturn, distraught, nervous, and irritable. All his buoyancy had

-      departed. Ellen saw the change, and puzzled herself to account for it.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She played to him, sang to him, but failed to drive the cloud from his

-      brow.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When she had retired for the night, he still sat pondering over Baptisto&rsquo;s

-      words.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XXV. &ldquo;BEWARE, MY LORD, OF JEALOUSY!&rdquo;

-     </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>f Baptisto&rsquo;s

-      object in describing a dream so ominous was to attract his master&rsquo;s

-      attention to the intimate relations between Mrs. Haldane and the

-      clergyman, he certainly succeeded. Once assured in this direction,

-      Haldane&rsquo;s perceptions were keen enough. He noticed that the mere mention

-      of Santley&rsquo;s name filled Ellen with a sort of nervous constraint; that,

-      although the clergyman&rsquo;s visits were frequent, they were generally made at

-      times when Haldane himself was busy and preoccupied&mdash;that is to say,

-      during his well-known hours of work; and that, moreover, Santley, however

-      much he liked the society of the lady, invariably avoided the husband, or,

-      if they met, contrived to frame some excuse for speedy parting. Now,

-      Haldane trusted his wife implicitly, and believed her incapable of any

-      infidelity, even in thought. Still, he did not quite like the aspect of

-      affairs. Much as he trusted his wife, he had a strong moral distrust for

-      anything in the shape of a priest; and he determined, therefore, to keep

-      his eyes upon the clergyman.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A few days after that curious physiological experiment, he had the

-      following conversation with Baptisto. It was the first day of the week.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Baptisto, I thought you were a good Catholic?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;So I am, senor,&rdquo; returned the Spaniard, smiling.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yet you went to an English church-yesterday, I hear?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, senor. I go there very often.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why, pray?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Simply out of curiosity. Mr. Santley is a beautiful preacher, and has a

-      silvery voice. While you were away, I went once, twice, three times. There

-      is a young senora there who plays sweetly upon the great organ; I like to

-      listen, to-watch the congregation.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Humph! By-the-bye, Baptisto, I have been thinking over the dream of

-      yours, when&mdash;when you were lying there.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, senor?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Pray, what put such a foolish idea in your head?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I cannot tell, senor; all I know is, it came. A foolish dream, do you

-      say? I suppose it is because the clergyman was here so often, when you

-      were away. And madame is so devout! I trust, senor, my dream has not given

-      you offence; perhaps I was wrong to speak of it at all.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldanes face had gone black as a thunder-cloud. Placing his hand on the

-      other&rsquo;s shoulder, and looking firmly into his face, he said&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Listen to me, Baptisto.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am listening, senor.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;If I thought you would come back to life to tell lies about your

-      mistress, I would have let you lie the other day and rot like a dead dog,

-      rather than have recovered you at all. You hear? Take care! I know you do

-      not love your mistress, but if you dare to whisper one word against her, I

-      will drive you for ever from my door.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Baptisto bowed his head respectfully before the storm, but retained his

-      usual composure.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Senor, may I speak?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes; but again, take care!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You should not blame me if I am jealous for your honour!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane started, and uttered an expletive.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My honour, you dog? What do you mean?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;This, senor. I would rather die than give you offence; and as for the

-      senora, I love her also, for is she not your wife? But will you be angry

-      still, when I tell you, when I warn you, to beware of that man, that

-      priest? He is a bad man, very bad. Ah, I have watched&mdash;and seen!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What have you seen?&rdquo; cried Haldane, clutching him by the arm. &ldquo;Come, out

-      with it!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Enough to show me that he is not your friend&mdash;that he is dangerous.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Bah! is that all? Now, listen to me, and be sure I mean what I say. I

-      will have no servant of mine spying upon my wife. I will have no servant

-      of mine insinuating that my honour is in danger. If I hear another word of

-      this, if you convey to me by one look the fact that you are still prying,

-      spying, and suspecting, I shall take you by the collar and send you flying

-      out of my house. Now, go!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Baptisto, who knew his master&rsquo;s temper perfectly, bowed and withdrew. He

-      had no wish to say one word more. He had thrown out a dark hint, a black

-      seed of suspicion, and he knew that he might safely let it work. It did

-      work, rapidly and terribly. Left alone, Haldane became a prey to the

-      wildest fears and suspicions. He remembered now that his wife had been

-      acquainted with this man in her girlhood; that there had even been some

-      passage of love between them. He remembered how eagerly she had renewed

-      the acquaintance, and with what admiring zeal the clergyman had responded.

-      He pictured to himself the sympathetic companionship, the zealous

-      meetings, the daily religious intercourse, of these two young people, each

-      full of the fervour of a blind superstition. Could it be possible that

-      they loved each other? Questioning his memory, he recalled looks, words,

-      tones, which, although scarcely noticed at the time, seemed now of painful

-      significance. The mere thought was sickening. Already he realized the

-      terrible phrase-of the poet Young&mdash;&ldquo;the jealous are the damned.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane was not habitually a violent man. Though passionate and headstrong

-      by temperament, he had schooled himself to gentleness after a stormy

-      youth, and the chilly waters of philosophy, at which he drank daily, kept

-      his head cool and his pulses calm. But the stormy spirit, though hushed,

-      was not altogether dead within him, and under his habitual reticence and

-      good-humoured cynicism, there lay the most passionate idolatry for his

-      beautiful wife. He had set her up in his heart of hearts, with a faith too

-      perfect for much expression; and it had not occurred to him, in his

-      remotest dreams, that any other man could ever come between them.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      And now, suddenly as a lightning flash illumining a dark landscape, the

-      fear came upon him that perhaps he had been unwary and unwise. Was it

-      possible, he asked himself, that he had&rsquo; been too studious and too

-      book-loving, too reticent also in all those little attentions which by

-      women, who always love sweetmeats, are so tenderly prized? Moreover, he

-      was ten years his wife&rsquo;s, elder&mdash;was that disparity of years also a

-      barrier between their souls? No; he was sure it was not. He was sure that

-      she was not hypocritical, and that she loved him. Wherever the blame might

-      be, if blame there were, it was certainly not hers. She had been in all

-      respects, a tender and a sympathetic wife; encouraging his deep study of

-      science, even when she most distrusted its results; proud of his

-      attainments, and eager for his success; in short, a perfect helpmate, but

-      for her old-fashioned prejudices in the sphere of religion. Ah, <i>religion!</i>

-      There was the one word which solved the enigma, and aroused in our

-      philosopher&rsquo;s bosom that fierce indignation which long ago led Lucretius

-      into such passionate hate against the Phantom,=

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Which with horrid head

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Leered hideously from all the gates of heaven!&rdquo;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It needed only this to complete his loathing for the popular theology, for

-      all its teachers. Yes, he reflected, religion only was to blame. In its

-      name, his wife&rsquo;s sympathies had been tampered with, her spirit more or

-      less turned against himself; in its name, his house had been secretly

-      invaded, his domestic happiness poisoned, his peace of mind destroyed. It

-      was the old story! Wherever this shadow of superstition crawled, craft and

-      dissimulation began. Now, as in the beginning, it came between father and

-      child, sister and brother, man and wife.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It so happened that when George Haldane came forth from having his dark

-      hour alone, he rather avoided meeting his wife at once, and, taking his

-      hat, stepped out from the laboratory on to the shrubbery path. He had

-      scarcely done so, when his eye fell upon two figures standing together in

-      the distance, upon the terrace of the house. One was Mrs. Haldane, wearing

-      her garden hat and a loose shawl thrown over her shoulders. The other was

-      the clergyman of the parish.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane drew back, and watched. In that moment he knew the extent of his

-      humiliation; for never before had he been a spy upon his wife&rsquo;s actions.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Their backs were towards him. Santley was talking eagerly; Ellen was

-      looking down. Presently they began to move slowly along the terrace, side

-      by side.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane watched them gloomily. The sunlight fell brightly upon them, and

-      on the old Manor house, with its brilliant creepers and glittering panes,

-      while the old chapel, with the watcher in its ruined porch, remained in

-      shadow. It seemed like an omen. In the darkness of his hiding-place,

-      Haldane felt satanic. Yes, there they walked&mdash;children of God, as

-      they called themselves&mdash;in God&rsquo;s sunlight; and he, the searcher for

-      light, the unbeliever, was forgotten.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Presently Santley paused again, and, with an impassioned gesture, pointed

-      upward. Ellen raised her head, and looked upward too, listening eagerly to

-      his words. Haldane laughed fiercely to himself, with all the ugliness of

-      his jealousy upon him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Presently they disappeared into the house. A little afterwards Santley

-      emerged from the front door, and came walking rapidly down the avenue. His

-      manner was eager and happy, almost jubilant, and Haldane saw, when he

-      approached, that his face looked positively radiant.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He was passing, when Haldane stepped out and confronted him. He started,

-      paused, and a shadow fell instantaneously upon his handsome face.

-      Recovering himself, he held out his hand. Haldane did not seem to see the

-      gesture, but, nodding a careless greeting, said, with his habitual <i>sang

-      froid</i>&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well met, Mr. Santley. Here I am again, you see, hard at work. Have you

-      come from the house?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; answered Santley.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;On some new message of Christian charity and beneficence, I suppose? Ah,

-      my dear sir, you are indefatigable. And the old women of the parish must

-      indeed find you a Good Shepherd. Did you find my wife at home?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And zealous, as usual, I suppose?&rsquo; Ah, what a thing it is to be pious!

-      But let me beg you not to encourage her too much. Charity begins at home;

-      and what with soup-kitchens, offertories, subscriptions for church

-      repairs, and societies for the gratuitous distribution of flannel

-      waistcoats, I am in a fair way of being ruined.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Santley forced a laugh.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be afraid. My errand to-day was not a begging one, I assure you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am glad to hear it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I was merely bringing Mrs. Haldane a book I promised to lend her. To tell

-      the truth, she finds your library rather destitute of works of a religious

-      nature.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Do you really think so?&rdquo; exclaimed Haldane, drily. &ldquo;Why, I thought it

-      unusually well provided in that respect. Let me see! There are Volney&rsquo;s

-      &lsquo;Ruins of Empire,&rsquo; Monboddo&rsquo;s &lsquo;Dissertations,&rsquo; Drummond&rsquo;s &lsquo;Academical

-      Questions,&rsquo; excellent translations of Schopenhauer and Hartmann, not to

-      speak of thirty-six volumes of Diderot, and fifty of Arouet.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Santley opened his eyes in horror and astonishment.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Arouet!&rdquo; he ejaculated. &ldquo;Do you actually mean to call Voltaire a

-      religious writer?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Highly so. There is religion even in &lsquo;La Pucelle,&rsquo; but it reaches its

-      culmination in the &lsquo;Philosophical Dictionary.&rsquo;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And you would actually let Mrs. Haldane read such works as those?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Certainly; though, am sorry to say, she prefers &lsquo;The Old Helmet&rsquo; and the

-      &lsquo;Heir of Redclyffe.&rsquo; May I ask the name of the work you have been good

-      enough to lend her?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It is a book from which I myself have received great benefit&mdash;Père

-      Hyacinthes &lsquo;Sermons.&rsquo;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Père Hyacinthe?&rdquo; repeated Haldane. &ldquo;Ah! the jolly priest who reverenced

-      celibacy, and proclaimed himself the father of a strapping boy. Well, the

-      man was at least honest. I think all clergymen should marry, and at as

-      early an age as possible. What is your opinion?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Santley flushed to the temples, while Haldane watched him with a gloomy

-      smile.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I think&mdash;I am sure,&rdquo; he stammered, &ldquo;that the married state is the

-      happiest&mdash;perhaps the holiest.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;With these sentiments, of which I cordially approve, why the deuce are

-      you a bachelor?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The clergyman winced at the question, and his colour deepened; then, as if

-      musing, he glanced round towards the house&mdash;a look which was observed

-      and fully appreciated by his tormentor.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am sure my wife would encourage you to change your condition. Like most

-      women, she is by instinct a matchmaker.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Santley did not seem to hear; at any rate, he made no reply, but, holding

-      out his hand quickly, exclaimed&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I must go now. I am rather in haste.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane did not take the hand, but put his arm upon the clergyman&rsquo;s

-      shoulder.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well, good day,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Take my advice, though, and get a sensible

-      wife as soon as possible.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Santley tried to smile, but only succeeded in looking more pale and

-      nervous than usual. With a few murmured words of adieu, he moved rapidly

-      away.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane watched him thoughtfully until he disappeared down the avenue.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I wonder if that man can smile?&rdquo; he said to himself. &ldquo;No; I am afraid he

-      is too horribly in earnest. I suppose, the women would call him handsome&mdash;<i>spiritual</i>;

-      but I hate such pallid, waxen-featured, handsome dolls. A pretty shepherd,

-      that, for a Christian flock to follow; a fellow who makes his very

-      ignorance of this world constitute his claim to act as cicerone to the

-      next. Fancy being jealous, actually <i>jealous</i>, of such a thing as

-      that!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He turned back into his laboratory and tried to dismiss Baptisto&rsquo;s

-      suggestion from his mind; but it was impossible. He could not disguise

-      from himself that Santley, with his seraphic face and sad, earnest eyes,

-      was the kind of creature whom the weaker sex adore, and that he was

-      rendered doubly dangerous to women by the radiant mesmerism of a

-      fascinating and voluptuous celestial superstition.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XXVI. FIRST LEAVES FROM A PHILOSOPHER NOTE-BOOK.

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> am about to set

-      down, in as concise a manner as possible, and at present solely for my

-      private edification (some day, perhaps, another eye may read the lines,

-      but not yet), certain events which have lately influenced my domestic

-      life. Were it not that even a professed scientist might decline to publish

-      experiments affecting his own private happiness, the description of the

-      events to which I allude might almost form a chapter in my slowly

-      progressing &ldquo;Physiology of Ethics,&rdquo; and the description would be at least

-      as interesting as many of Ferriers accounts of vivisection on dumb

-      animals. But, unfortunately, I am unable, in this case, to apply the

-      dissecting knife to my neighbours heart, without laying bare the ugly

-      wound in my own.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      To begin then, I, George Haldane, recluse, pessimist, moral physiologist,

-      and would-be moral philosopher, have discovered, at forty years of age,

-      that I am capable of the most miserable of all human passions; worse, that

-      this said ignoble passion of jealousy has a certain rational foundation.

-      For ten years I have been happy with a wife who seemed the perfection of

-      human gentleness and beauty; who, although unfortunately we have been

-      blest with no offspring, has shown the tenderest solicitude and sympathy

-      for the children of my brain; and who, in her wifely faith and sanctity,

-      seemed to be the sole link still holding me to a church whose history has

-      always filled me with abhorrence, and a religion whose infantine theology

-      I despise. Well, <i>nous avons changé tout cela</i>. My mind is no longer

-      peaceful, my hearth no longer sacred; and the woman I love seems slowly

-      drifting from me on a stream of sensuous spiritualism&mdash;another name

-      for a religious rehabilitation of the flesh.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      If any other man were the victim, I should think the situation highly

-      absurd. Here, on the one hand, is a fanatical Protestant priest, with the

-      face of a seraphic monk, the experience of a schoolgirl, and the <i>gaucherie</i>

-      of a country chorister who has never grown a beard; a fellow whose sole

-      claims to notice are his white hands, his clean linen, and his function as

-      a silly shepherd; a man fresh from college, ignorant of the world. Here,

-      on the other hand, am I, physically and intellectually his master, knowing

-      almost every creed beneath the sun, and the slave of none; indifferent to

-      vulgar human passions, and disposed to disintegrate them one and all with

-      the electric current of a negative philosophy. Between us both, trembling

-      this way and that, is that fair thing of flesh and blood, my wife, zealous

-      to save her own soul alive, and fearful at times, I fancy, that I have

-      sold mine to the Prince of Darkness. It is another version of science

-      against superstition, common sense against a lie; and Ellen Haldane is the

-      prize. A fiery Spaniard, like Baptisto yonder, would end the affair with a

-      stiletto-thrust; but I, of colder blood, am not likely to do anything so

-      courageous or so foolish, but am content to watch and watch, and to feel

-      the sick contamination of my suspicion creeping over me like an

-      unwholesome mildew. A stiletto thrust? Why, the mere tongue, a less fatal

-      weapon, would do it all. If I could only summon up the courage to say to

-      my wife, &ldquo;I know your secret; choose between this man and me, between his

-      creed and mine, between your duty as a wife and your zeal as a Christian,&rdquo;

-       I fancy there would be an end to it all. But I am too timorous; I suppose,

-      too ashamed of my suspicions, too proud to acknowledge so contemptible a

-      rival. As a Spaniard covers his face with his mantle, I veil my soul with

-      my pride; and, under the mantle of unsuspicion, rest irresolute, while the

-      thing grows.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Once or twice, I have thought of another way&mdash;of taking my wife by

-      the hand and saying, &ldquo;To-morrow, my dear, we shall leave this place, and

-      return to Spain or Italy&mdash;some quiet place abroad.&rdquo; I could easily

-      find an excuse for the migration, which, once effected, would make an end

-      of the affair. But that, in my opinion, would be too cowardly. It would,

-      indeed, be an admission that the danger was real and imminent; that, in

-      other words, the fight for honour could only be saved by an ignominious

-      retreat. No; Ellen Haldane must take her chance. If she is not strong

-      enough to hold out against evil, then let her go&mdash;<i>au bon Dieu</i>

-      or <i>au bon diable</i>, as either leads.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Yet what am I saying? It is precisely because I have the utmost faith in

-      her purity of heart that I watch the struggle with a certain patience. I

-      believe there will be a victim, but not my Ellen. Surely, if there is a

-      good woman in the world, she is that woman. As for the other, every day,

-      every hour, brings the cackling creature further and further into my

-      decoy. Even if he tried to turn back now, I do not think I should let him.

-      No; let him swim in and on, and in and on, till he reaches the place where

-      I, like the decoy man, can catch him fluttering, and&mdash;wring his neck?

-      Perhaps.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It is quite clear that the man takes me for an idiot. At first he used

-      precautions, invented subterfuges; latterly, certain of my stupidity or

-      indifference, he comes and goes without disguise. When I meet him driving

-      side by side of my wife in the phaeton, on some pretended errand of mercy,

-      he gives me a careless bow, a nod. As he goes by my den, on his way to

-      invite her out to visit his sister or his church, he makes no excuse, but

-      passes jauntily, with a conversational pat for the stupid watch-dog: that

-      is all. It would be amusing, I say, if it were not almost insufferable.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      This afternoon, as Ellen was going out, I blankly suggested that she

-      should stay at home.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But you are busy,&rdquo; she said&mdash;&ldquo;always busy with your books and

-      experiments.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not too busy, my dear Nell, for a <i>tête-à-tête</i> with you. Where are

-      you going? To the Vicarage?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;To see the parson, or his sister?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Both. We have a great deal to discuss, about the designs for the new

-      stained-glass windows, which have just come from London.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Very interesting; but they will keep for a day. I fancy I could show you

-      something quite as interesting, in my laboratory.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I hate the laboratory,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;and those horrible experiments.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My dear, you should not hate what your husband loves.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t mean that I hate them, quite; but I think them so useless!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;More useless than stained-glass windows?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It is certainly not useless to beautify the House of God. Oh, I do so

-      wish you could feel as I do about these things! What is the world without

-      them?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Without stained-glass windows?&rdquo; I suggested sarcastically.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She flushed impatiently.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;George, why have you such a dislike for religion? Why do you hate

-      everything I love?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Pardon me, my dear Nell, it was <i>you</i>, not I, that spoke of hating.

-      Philosophers never hate.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But you do worse; you despise it. Thank God we have no children. It would

-      be horrible to tell them that their father forbade them to go to church,

-      or pray!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      It was like a stab into my heart of hearts, that cry of thanks to God.

-      Despite myself, I lost my composure. She saw it instantly, and in the

-      manner of her sex, encroached.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Oh, George, do try to think sometimes of these things, for my sake! You

-      would be so much happier, you surely would have so much more blessing, if

-      you sometimes prayed.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;How do you know that I do not pray?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Because you do not believe.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I do not believe precisely as your priest believes, that is all.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She looked at me eagerly; then, after a moments hesitation, cried&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;George, if I asked a favour, would you grant it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Try.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Let Mr. Santley come sometimes, and speak with you about God!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      This was too much, almost, for even me to bear with equanimity. I am

-      afraid I did not look particularly amiable as I answered, sharp and short,

-      turning from her&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;After all, I think you had better go and look at those designs.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;There, you are angry again!&rdquo; she cried; and I knew by the sound of her

-      voice that her throat was choked with tears. &ldquo;You are always angry when I

-      touch upon religion.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You were not talking of religion,&rdquo; I retorted; &ldquo;you were talking of that

-      man.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why do you dislike him so? Because he is a preacher of the Word?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Because he is a canting hypocrite, like all his tribe,&rdquo; I cried.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She saw that I had lost my temper, as was inevitable, and, sighing deeply,

-      moved to the door. I followed her with my eyes. I would have given the

-      world to call her back; to clasp her in my arms; to tell her my aching

-      fears; to promise her I would worship any God she choose, in any place, in

-      any way, so long as she would only be true, and answer my eager impulse

-      with a little love. But I was too proud for that.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then you are going?&rdquo; I said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She turned, looking at me very sadly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, if you do not mind.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I shrugged my shoulders, and after another sad, reproachful look, she left

-      the room. A minute afterwards, she drove her ponies past the window,

-      without looking up.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <i>Thursday, September</i> 15.&mdash;A golden autumn day, so warm and

-      still that it reminded me of the Indian summer. Not a leaf stirred, but

-      the insects in the air were like floating blossoms, and seemed to sleep

-      upon their wings. Even all round my den the shadows were sultry, and

-      intertangled with slumberous shafts of light.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      This fine weather rather disappointed me, for I had arranged for a day&rsquo;s

-      recreation. In my youth, before I was caught myself in the tedious snares

-      of speculation, I used to be an ardent fisherman, and I still retain

-      sufficient knowledge of the gentle craft to cast a fly tolerably. So,

-      tired of work, and a little weary of my own thoughts, I determined, for

-      the first time, to take advantage of the permission my neighbour, Lord

-      &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;, has given me, and spend a day upon the river

-      banks.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Despite the sunshine, and the absence of even a breath of wind, I

-      shouldered my basket, lifted my rod, and set off. Ellen was already out

-      and about; so I did not see her before I started. Taking a short cut

-      through the shrubberies, I soon came to the banks of the Emmet&mdash;as

-      pretty a little stream as ever rippled over golden sands, or reached out

-      an azure arm to turn some merry watermill. Arrived there, I soon saw that

-      it would be useless to try a cast till there was a little wind; so,

-      without putting my rod together, I strolled on along the river-side, till

-      I was several miles away from the Manor house.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The stream was rather low, but here and there were good deep pools, but so

-      calm, so sunny, that every overhanging tree, every finger of fern, every

-      blade of grass, was reflected in them as in a mirror. Still, as the time

-      was, the waters were full of life. Over the pools hung clusters of flies

-      like glittering spiders&rsquo; webs, scarcely moving in the sunshine; and when,

-      from time to time, a trout rose, he leaped a full foot into the golden air

-      above him, and sank back to coolness beneath an ever-widening ring of

-      light. Sometimes from the grassy edge of the bank a water-rat would slip,

-      swimming rapidly across, with his nose just lifted above the water, and

-      his tail leaving a thin, bright trail. Water-ouzels rose at every curve,

-      following swiftly the winding of the stream; and twice past my feet

-      flashed a kingfisher, like an azure ray.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The way lay sometimes through deep grassy meadows, sometimes by the sides

-      of corn-fields where the sheaves were already slanted, oftentimes through

-      thick shrubberies and woods already yellow with the withering leaf. From

-      time to time I passed a farm, with orchards sloping down to the very

-      water&rsquo;s edge, or pastures slanting down to shallows where the cattle

-      waded, breaking the water to silver streaks and whisking their tails

-      against the clustering swarms of gnats. It was very pleasant and very

-      still, but, from a fishing point of view, exceedingly absurd.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      By-and-by, however, a faint breeze began to touch the pools, and putting

-      my rod together, and selecting my finest casting-line and two tiny flies,

-      I tried a cast. Fortunately the wind was blowing sunward, and as I faced

-      the light, the shadow fell behind me; but, nevertheless, the shadow of my

-      rod flitted about at every cast, and threatened to spoil my sport. My

-      first catch was an innocent baby-fish as big as my thumb, who came at the

-      fly with a rush, and fought desperately when hooked. When I had disengaged

-      him, and put him back into the water, he simply gave a flip of his little

-      tail, and sailed contemptuously and quite leisurely out of sight, making

-      me call to mind, with unusual humiliation, the well-known definition which

-      Dr. Johnson gave of angling&mdash;&ldquo;a fish at one end of the line, and a

-      fool at the other,&rdquo; I had tried a good many, casts before I took my first

-      respectable fish&mdash;a trout of about half a pound. I caught him in a

-      nice broken bit of water, just below a quaint old water-mill; and just as

-      I put him into the basket, the portly miller came out to the granary door,

-      and looked at me with a dusty smile. He evidently thought me a lunatic, to

-      be out with a fishing-rod on such a day.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Half a mile further on I landed another glittering picture of at least a

-      quarter of a pound; after that, another of half a pound; then my luck

-      ceased, the wind fell, and it was full sunshine. By this time I had

-      wandered a good many miles from home, and reached the spot where the river

-      plunges into the Great Omberley woods. Here the stream was so rapid and

-      the boughs so thick, that it was useless to think of casting; so I put up

-      my rod, and, leaping over a fence, rambled away into the woods.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      How strange and dark and still it was, passing out of the sunshine into

-      those shadows, deep and cool as the bottom of the sea! The oak trees

-      stretched their gnarled boughs into the air, and all around them were the

-      lesser trees of the wood-willow, elder, blackthorn, ash, and hazel. The

-      ground beneath was carpeted with moss and grass as thick and soft as

-      velvet, with thick clusters of fern and bluebells round the tree roots,

-      and creepers dangling from every bough. And the wood, like the river, was

-      all alive! Conies tumbled across the patches of light, and flitted in the

-      shadow, like very elves of the woodland; squirrels ran up the gnarled tree

-      trunks; harmless silver snakes glided along the moss; but here and there,

-      swift and ominous, ran a weazel, darting its head this way and that, and

-      fiercely scenting the air, in one eternal glitter and hurry of

-      bloodthirsty emotion. Thrush, blackbird, finch, birds without number, sang

-      overhead; save when the shadow of the wind-hover or the sparrow-hawk

-      passed across the topmost branches, when there was a sudden and respectful

-      silence, to be followed by a precipitate hurry of exultation, as the enemy

-      passed away.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      If I had been a moralist, I might have seen in this wood a microcosm of

-      the world, with its abundant happiness, its beauty, and its dark spots of

-      moral ugliness and cruelty. In you, Signor Weazel (who came so near that I

-      touched you with my rod, which you snapped at ferociously, before bolting

-      swiftly into the deep grass), I might have seen the likeness of a certain

-      sleek creature of my own sex and species, who dwells not very far away.

-      Nevertheless, I let you go in peace; which was no mercy to the conies, I

-      suppose.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      So I entered the Forest Primaeval&mdash;or such it seemed to me, as the

-      blaze of sunshine faded, the boughs thickened, the air became full of dark

-      shadows and ominous silence. My steps were now deep in grass and fern, and

-      the scent of flowers and weeds was thick in my nostrils, but I chose a

-      path where the boughs were thinnest, and quietly pushed through. While

-      thus I rambled, I suppose that I fell, philosopher like, into a dream; at

-      any rate, I seemed to lose all count of time.=

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The world, the life of men, dissolved away

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Into a sense of dimness,

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      as some poet sings. I felt primaeval&mdash;archetypal so to speak, till a

-      sudden&rsquo; shifting of the vegetable kaleidoscope recalled from thoughts of

-      Plato and the Archetype to a cruel consciousness of self.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I was moving slowly on, when I heard the sound of voices quite close to

-      me. I paused, listening, and only just in time, for in another moment I

-      should have been visible to the speakers. Well shrouded in deep foliage, I

-      looked out to discover what sylvan creatures were disporting themselves in

-      that lonely place; and I saw&mdash;what shall I say? A nymph and a satyr?

-      a dryad and a goatfooted Faun?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Just beyond me, there was a broad-green road through the woodland, deeply

-      carpeted with soft grass, but marked here and there with the broad track

-      of a wood-waggon; and on the side of this solitary road, on a rude seat

-      fashioned of two oaken stumps and a rough plank, the nymph was sitting.

-      She wore a light dress of some soft material, a straw hat, a country

-      cloak, and gloves of Paris kid&mdash;a civilized nymph, as you perceive!

-      To complete her modern appearance, she carried a closed parasol, and a

-      roll which looked like music.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      How pretty she looked, with the warm light playing upon her delicate

-      features, and suffusing her form in its delicate drapery; with the

-      semi-transparent branches behind her, and flowers of the woodland at her

-      feet!

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XXVII. THE NOTE-BOOK CONTINUED NYMPH AND SATYR.

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>nd the satyr? Ah!

-      I knew him at a glance, despite the elegant modern boots used to disguise

-      the cloven foot.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He wore black broadcloth and snowy linen, too, and a broad-brimmed

-      clerical hat. His face was seraphically pale, but I saw (or fancied I saw)

-      the twinkle of the hairy ears of the ignoble, sensual, nymph-compelling,

-      naiad-pursuing breed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He was talking earnestly, with gestures of eager entreaty; for the nymph

-      was crying, and he was offering her some kind of consolation.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Presently he sat down by her side, and threw his arms around her. She

-      disengaged herself from his embrace, and rose trembling to her feet.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t touch me!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;That is all over now. I cannot bear it!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He rose also, and stood regarding her, not with the rapturous eyes&rsquo; of a

-      lover, but with a dark and gloomy gaze. Then he said, in a low voice,

-      something which I could not catch. But I heard her passionate reply.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, it is all over,&rdquo; she cried; &ldquo;and I shall never be at peace again.

-      Even, if you kept your word, it would be the same. You do not love me; you

-      never loved me&mdash;never!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I crept a little closer, for I was anxious to hear his answer.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I do love you, Edith; and after what has passed between us&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She shrank away with a faint, despairing cry, and put her hand to her

-      face.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;After what has passed between us, do you think that my love can change?

-      But you are unjust to me, to yourself; too violent and too hard to please.

-      I do not like to be suspected, to be watched; and it is painful to me,

-      very painful, to be constantly called to an account by you. It is not

-      reasonable. Even as your husband, I would not bear it; it would poison the

-      peace between us, and convert our married life into a simple hell!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He paused; but her only answer was a sob of pain. So he sermonized on:

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Between man and woman, Edith, there should be solemn confidence and

-      trust. When that ceases, love is sure to cease. Why, look at me! My trust

-      in you is so absolute that no action of yours could shake it; no matter

-      how peculiar were the circumstances, I should be certain of your faith,

-      your goodness. That is true love&mdash;absolute, implicit faith in the

-      beloved object. I wish I could persuade you to imitate it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You know that you can trust me,&rdquo; sobbed the poor child, &ldquo;because I have:

-      <i>proved</i> my love.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Have I not proved mine?&rdquo; he cried, with irritation. &ldquo;Have I not made

-      sacrifice upon sacrifice for your sake? Have I not remained here, in this

-      wretched country place, when I could have been promoted to other and

-      greater spheres of action? Have I not made you my companion, my

-      confidante, my nearest and dearest friend? Edith, why do you persist in

-      such accusations? What must I do to signify our attachment? Shall I marry

-      you at once? Speak the word, and although, as you know, it would involve

-      the ruin of all my worldly projects, I will do as you desire.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I had-heard enough to convince me that the affair under discussion was no

-      affair of mine, and that I had no right to continue playing the spy; so I

-      was drawing back as gently as possible, and about to return the way I

-      came, when I was suddenly arrested by the next words spoken.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Give up Mrs. Haldane!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I The nymph was the speaker. She stood with her wild eyes fixed upon the

-      other&rsquo;s face, which did not improve in beauty of expression. For myself, I

-      started, stung to the quick; then I returned, trembling, to my place of

-      espionage.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Give up Mrs. Haldane!&rdquo; repeated the girl. &ldquo;I ask nothing more than that.

-      I will not force you to marry me, Charles, till it is for your good;

-      indeed, if I did, I know that we should be unhappy, and that you would

-      never forgive me. But you can at least cease to be so familiar with Mrs.

-      Haldane.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He had discovered by this time, I suppose, that the pleading mood availed

-      him little; at all events, he suddenly changed his tone, and with a cry of

-      angry indignation, he exclaimed&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Edith, take care! I have told you that I will not suffer it! How dare you

-      suspect that lady! How dare you!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      And he stood towering over her (the satyr!) in the fulness of his snowy

-      shirtfront and the whiteness of his moral indignation.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It is no use being angry,&rdquo; she returned, with a certain stubbornness,

-      though I could see that she was cowed, in the manner of gentle women, by

-      his violent physical passion. &ldquo;After what you have told me, after what I

-      have seen&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Edith, again, take care!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You are always with her,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;night-time and day-time. I am

-      amazed that Mr. Haldane does not notice it. It is the talk of the place.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      With another exclamation, he turned his back and walked rapidly away.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Come back!&rdquo; she cried hysterically. &ldquo;If you leave like that, I will drown

-      myself in the river.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He returned and faced her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You will drive me mad!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I am sick of it. I am more like a slave

-      than a free man. You will not suffer me even to have a friend.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;She is more than a friend. You have told me yourself, that you loved

-      her.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And so I did,&rdquo; he answered, &ldquo;though of course she is nothing to me <i>now</i>.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why are you always with her?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am interested in her, deeply interested. She is unhappy with her

-      husband, and as a minister of the gospel&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      With her tearful, truthful eyes, fixed so earnestly upon him, no wonder he

-      paused and blushed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Charles, do not be a hypocrite! At least be honest. She is more to you

-      than a friend.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He raised his hands heavenward, in pulpit fashion, and protested.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Edith, I swear to you before God, that there is nothing whatever between

-      us. She is a stainless lady, her husband does not understand her, I am her

-      spiritual friend and guide.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, Charles; I understand,&rdquo; she said, still earnestly watching him. &ldquo;<i>Justus

-      you were mine!</i>&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I think it worth while to put that little sentence in italics. It was a

-      home stroke, and took away the satyr&rsquo;s breath.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Edith, for shame!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;You know you do not mean what you say. If I

-      thought you meant it, I should break with you for ever. I tell you again,

-      Mrs. Haldane is above reproach, and it is simply disgraceful to couple her

-      name, in such a manner, with mine. And you would infer, now, that I have

-      influenced your own life for evil; you would mock at my spiritual

-      pretensions, and brand me as a base, unworthy creature. Well, Edith,

-      perhaps you are right. Perhaps I have given you cause. I have shown you

-      that I love you, beyond position, beyond the world, beyond even my own

-      self-respect, and this is my return.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I could have sprung out and strangled the fellow, he was so cruel and yet

-      so plausible, so superbly selfish and yet so completely self-deceiving;

-      and I saw that with every word he uttered he gained a fresh hold over the

-      heart of the pretty fool who was listening. While he spoke, she sobbed as

-      if her little heart was ready to break; and when he ceased, she eagerly

-      held out her arms.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Oh, Charles, don&rsquo;t say that! Don&rsquo;t say that my love has been a curse to

-      you!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You drive me to say it,&rdquo; he answered moodily; &ldquo;you make me miserable with

-      your jealousy, your suspicion.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t say that I make you miserable&mdash;don&rsquo;t!&rdquo; she sobbed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You used to be so different,&rdquo; he continued, still preserving his tone of

-      moral injury; &ldquo;you used to be so interested in my work, my daily duties.

-      Now, you do nothing but reproach me; and why? Because I have found an old

-      friend, who happens to be of your own sex, but who is far above the folly

-      of a meaningless flirtation, and who little deserves the cruel slur you

-      cast upon her. Am I, then, to have no friends, no acquaintances? Is every

-      step I take to be measured by the unreasoning suspicion of a jealous

-      woman?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      By this time she had put her arms about his neck, and was sobbing on his

-      breast.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Oh, Charles, don&rsquo;t be so hard with me! It is all because I love you&mdash;ah,

-      so much!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But you should conquer these wicked feelings&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I try! I try!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You should have more confidence, more faith. You know how much I care for

-      you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes; but sometimes I feel afraid. Mrs. Haldane is so much cleverer, so

-      much more beautiful, than I am, and she was your first love. They say men

-      never love twice.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That is nonsense, Edith.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But you do love me, dear? you do?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Ugh, the satyr! He answered her with kisses, straining her to his heart

-      and she, sobbing and clinging round him, was quite conquered. I felt sick

-      to see her at his mercy. Then their voices sank, and he whispered, and I

-      saw the bright blood mount to her cheek and brow. But, alas! she did not

-      shrink away any more.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Then whispering and kissing, with eyes of passion fixed upon one another,

-      they moved away, taking a lonely path into the woods beyond me. My first

-      impulse was to follow them, and to tear them asunder. But after all, I

-      reflected it was no affair of mine, and I knew now, moreover, that nothing

-      in the world would save her from him&mdash;or from herself. .

-    </p>

-    <h3>

-      END OF VOL. II.

-    </h3>

-    <div style="height: 6em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-<pre>

-

-

-

-

-

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-Robert W. Buchanan

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+    <title>
+      Foxglove Manor, by Robert W. Buchanan
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+<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 48472 ***</div>
+
+    <div style="height: 8em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h1>
+      FOXGLOVE MANOR
+    </h1>
+    <h3>
+      A Novel
+    </h3>
+    <h2>
+      By Robert W. Buchanan
+    </h2>
+    <h4>
+      In Three Volumes, Vol. II.
+    </h4>
+    <h5>
+      London <br /> Chatto And Windos, Piccadilly <br /> 1884
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <b>CONTENTS</b>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>FOXGLOVE MANOR</b>. </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER XIV. BAPTISTO STAYS AT HOME. </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER XV. CONJURATION. </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER XVI. AT THE OPERA. </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER XVII. WALTER HETHERINGTON. </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER XVIII. CHURCH BELLS&mdash;AND A DISCORD.
+      </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER XIX. HE IS BUT A LANDSCAPE PAINTER </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER XX. IN THE GLOAMING. </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER XXI. IN THE VICARAGE PARLOUR. </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER XXII. AT THE VICARAGE. </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER XXIII. DR. DUPRÉ&rsquo;S ELIXIR. </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XXIV. THE EXPERIMENT. </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XXV. &ldquo;BEWARE, MY LORD, OF JEALOUSY!&rdquo; </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XXVI. FIRST LEAVES FROM A PHILOSOPHER
+      NOTE-BOOK. </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XXVII. THE NOTE-BOOK CONTINUED NYMPH AND
+      SATYR. </a>
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      FOXGLOVE MANOR.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      CHAPTER XIV. BAPTISTO STAYS AT HOME.
+    </h2>
+    <p class="pfirst">
+      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>s Haldane sat in
+      his study, the evening previous to the morning fixed for his journey to
+      London, Baptisto entered quickly and stood before the desk at which his
+      master was busily writing.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Can I speak to you, senor?&rdquo; Haldane looked and nodded.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What is it, Baptisto?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You have arranged that I shall go with you to-morrow, but I have had
+      during the last few days an attack of my old vertigo. Can you possibly
+      dispense with my attendance, senor?&rdquo; Haldane stared in surprise at the
+      Spaniards face, which was inscrutable as usual.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Do you mean to say you wish to remain at home?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Certainly, senor.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why? because you are ill? On the contrary, you look in excellent health.
+      No; it is impossible. I cannot get along without you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      And Haldane returned to his papers as if the matter was ended.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Baptisto, however, did not budge, but remained in the same position, with
+      his dark eyes fixed upon his master.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Do me this favour, senor. I am really indisposed, and must beg to
+      remain.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Haldane laughed, for an idea suddenly occurred to him which seemed to
+      explain the mystery of his servant&rsquo;s request.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;My good Baptisto, I think I understand the cause of your complaint, and I
+      am sure a little travel will do you good. It is that dark-eyed widow of
+      the lodge-keeper who attaches you so much to the Manor. The warm blood of
+      Spain still burns in your veins, and, despite your sad experience of
+      women, you are still impressionable. Eh? am I right?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Baptisto quickly shook his head, with the least suspicion of a smile upon
+      his swarthy face.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am not impressionable, senor, and I do not admire your English women;
+      but I wish to remain all the same.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Nonsense!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Nonsense! In serious lament, senor, I beseech you to allow me to remain.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      But Haldane was not to be persuaded at what he conceived to be a mere whim
+      of his servant. He still believed that Baptisto had fallen a captive to
+      the charms of Mrs. Feme, a little plump, dark-eyed woman, with a large
+      family. He had frequently of late seen the Spaniard hanging about the
+      lodge&mdash;on one occasion nursing and dandling the youngest child&mdash;and
+      he had smiled to himself, thinking that the poor fellow&rsquo;s misanthropy, or
+      rather his misogynism, was in a fair way of coming to an end.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Finding his master indisposed to take his request seriously, Baptisto
+      retired; and presently Haldane strolled into the drawing-room, where he
+      found his wife.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Have you heard of the last freak of Baptisto? He actually wants to remain
+      at ease, instead of accompanying me in my journey.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Ellen looked up from some embroidery, in which she was busily engaged.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;On no account!&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;If you don&rsquo;t take him with you, I. shall
+      not stay in the place.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Dear me! said the philosopher. Surely you are not afraid of poor
+      Baptisto!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Not afraid of him exactly, but he makes me shiver. He comes and goes like
+      a ghost, and when you least expect him, he is at your elbow. Then, of
+      course, I cannot help remembering he has committed a murder!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Nothing of the kind,&rdquo; said Haldane, laughing and throwing himself into a
+      chair. &ldquo;My dear Ellen, you don&rsquo;t believe the whole truth of that affair.
+      True, he surprised that Spanish wife of his with her gallant, whom he
+      stabbed; but I have it on excellent authority that it was a kind of
+      duello; the other man was armed, and so it was a fair fight.&rdquo; Ellen
+      shuddered, and showed more nervous agitation than her husband could quite
+      account for.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Take him away with you,&rdquo; she cried; &ldquo;take him away. If you never bring
+      him back, I shall rejoice. If I had been consulted, he would never have
+      been brought to England.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      A little later in the evening, when Haldane had returned to his papers,
+      which he was diligently finishing to take away with him, he rang and
+      summoned the Spaniard to his presence.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Well, it is all settled. I have consulted your mistress, and she insists
+      in your accompanying me to-morrow.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      A sharp flash came upon Baptisto&rsquo;s dark eyes. He made an angry gesture;
+      then controlling himself, he said in a low, emphatic voice&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;The <i>senora</i> means it? <i>She</i> does not wish me to remain?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Just so.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;May I ask why?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Only because she does not want you, and I do. Between ourselves, she is
+      not quite so certain of you as I am. She has never forgotten that little
+      affair in Spain.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Again the dark eyes flashed, and again there was the same angry gesture,
+      instantly checked.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Haldane continued.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are violent sometimes, my Baptisto, and madame is a little afraid of
+      you. When she knows you better, as I know you, she will be aware that you
+      are rational; at present&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;At present, senor,&rdquo; said Baptisto, &ldquo;she would rather not have me so near.
+      Ah, I can understand! Perhaps she has reason to be afraid.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Something in the man&rsquo;s manner, which was sinister and almost threatening,
+      jarred upon his master&rsquo;s mind. Rising from his chair, Haldane stood with
+      his back to the fire, and, with a frown, regarded the Spaniard, as, he
+      said&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Listen to me, Baptisto. I have noticed with great annoyance, especially
+      of late, that your manner to madame has been strange, not to say sullen.
+      You are whimsical still, and apt to take offence. If this goes on, if you
+      fail in respect to your mistress, and make your presence uncomfortable in
+      this house, we shall have to part.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      To Haldane&rsquo;s astonishment, Baptisto asked an explanation, and, falling on
+      his knees, seized his master&rsquo;s hand and kissed it eagerly, &ldquo;Senor! Senor!
+      you don&rsquo;t comprehend. You don&rsquo;t think I am ungrateful, that I do not
+      remember? But you are wrong. I would die to save you&mdash;yes, I would
+      die; and I would kill with my own hand any one who did you an injury. I am
+      your servant, your slave&mdash;ah yes, till death.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Come, get up, and go and finish packing my things.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But, senor&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Get up, I say.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The Spaniard rose, and with folded hands and bent head stood waiting.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Get ready like a sensible fellow, and let us have no more of this
+      foolery. There, there, I understand. You are exciting yourself for
+      nothing.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then, I am to go, senor?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Certainly.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Early the next morning Baptisto entered the carriage with his master, and
+      was driven to the railway station, some seven miles away. As they went
+      along, Haldane noticed that the man looked very ill, and that from time to
+      time he put his hand to his head as if in pain. At the railway station,
+      while they were waiting for the train, matters looked most serious.
+      Suddenly the Spaniard fell forward on the platform as if in strong
+      convulsions, his eyes starting out of his head, his mouth foaming. They
+      sprinkled water on his face, chafed his hands, and with some difficulty
+      brought him round.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;The devil!&rdquo; muttered Haldane to himself. &ldquo;It looks like epilepsy!&rdquo;
+       Baptisto was placed on a seat, and lay back ghastly pale, as if utterly
+      exhausted.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Are you better now?&rdquo; asked Haldane, bending over him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;A little better, senor.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      But seeing him so utterly helpless, and likely to have other seizure,
+      Haldane rapidly calculated in his own mind the inexpediency of taking him
+      away on a long railway journey. After all, the poor fellow had not
+      exaggerated his condition, when he had pleaded illness as an excuse for
+      remaining at home.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;After all,&rdquo; said Haldane, &ldquo;I think you will have to remain behind.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Baptisto opened his eyes feebly, and stretched out his hands.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, senor; since you wish it, I will go.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You shall remain,&rdquo; answered Haldane, just as the whistle of the coming
+      train was heard in the distance. &ldquo;Perhaps, if you are better in a day or
+      two, you can follow; but you will go away now in the carriage, and send
+      over to Dr. Spruce, and he will prescribe for you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Baptisto did not answer, but, taking his masters hand, kissed it
+      gratefully. The train came up. Haldane entered a carriage, and, gazing
+      from the window as the train began to move on, saw Baptisto still seated
+      on the platform, very pale, his eyes half closed, his head recumbent. Near
+      him stood the station master, a railway porter, and the groom who had
+      driven them over from the Manor, all regarding him with languid curiosity.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But the moment the train was gone, Baptisto began to recover. Rising to
+      his feet, and refusing all offers of assistance from the others, he
+      strolled out of the station, and quietly mounted the dog-cart. The groom
+      got up beside him, and they drove homeward through the green lanes.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Now, Baptisto was a gentleman, and seldom entered or tolerated familiarity
+      from his fellow-servants. Had it been otherwise, the groom might have
+      asked the explanation of his curious conduct; for no sooner was he mounted
+      on the dogcart, and driving along in the fresh air, than the Spaniard
+      seemed to forget all about his recent illness, sat erect like a man in
+      perfect health, and exhibited none of the curious symptoms which had so
+      alarmed his master.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And when the groom, who was a thirsty individual, suggested that they
+      should make a detour and call at the Blue Boar Inn for a little stimulant,
+      chiefly as a corrective to the attack from which his companion had just
+      suffered, the Spaniard turned his dark eyes round about him and actually
+      winked. This proceeding so startled the groom that he almost dropped the
+      reins, for never in the whole course of his sojourn had the foreign gent
+      condescended to such a familiarity.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      They drove round to the Blue Boar, however, and the groom consumed the
+      brandy, while Baptisto, who was a teetotaller, had some lemonade, and lit
+      his cigar. Then they drove home to the Manor, Baptisto sitting with folded
+      arms, completely and absolutely recovered.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      About noon that day, as Mrs. Haldane moved about the conservatory, looking
+      after her roses, a servant announced the Rev. Mr. Santley. Ellen flushed,
+      a little startled at the announcement, coming so soon after her husband&rsquo;s
+      departure, and her first impulse was to deny herself; but before she could
+      do so the clergyman himself appeared at the door of the conservatory.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are an early visitor,&rdquo; she said coldly, bending her face over the
+      flowers.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is just noon,&rdquo; answered the clergyman, &ldquo;and I was going home from a
+      sick-call. Has Mr. Haldane gone?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes. Did you wish to see him?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Not particularly, though I had a little commission which I might have
+      asked him to execute had I been in time.&rdquo; Surely the man&rsquo;s fall had
+      already begun. Ellen knew perfectly well that he was lying. In point of
+      fact, he had seen the dog-cart drive past on the way to the station, and
+      he had been unable to resist the temptation of coming over without delay.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      With face half averted, Ellen led the way into the drawing-room, and on to
+      the terrace beyond, from which there was a pleasant view of the Manor, the
+      plain, and the surrounding country. Just below the gardens were laid out
+      in flowerbeds and gravel walks; but the dark shrubberies were beyond, and
+      at a little distance, well in the shadow of the trees, the old chapel.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      There was a long silence. Ellen stood silent, gazing upon the woods and
+      lawn, while the clergyman stood just behind her, evidently regarding her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At last she could bear it no longer, but, turning quickly, exclaimed&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why did you come? Have you anything to say to me?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Nothing, Ellen, if you are angry,&rdquo; replied the clergyman.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Angry! You surely know best if I have cause. After what has passed, I
+      think it is better that we should not meet,&rdquo; she added in a low voice. &ldquo;At
+      least, not often.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He saw she was agitated, and he took a certain pleasure in her agitation,
+      for it showed him that she was not quite unsusceptible to the influence he
+      might bring to bear upon her. As he stood there, his sad eyes fixed upon
+      her, his being conscious of every movement she made, of every breath she
+      drew, he felt again the deep fatality of his passion, and silently yielded
+      to it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      There was another long pause, which he was the first to break.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Do you know, Ellen, I sometimes tremble for you, when I think of your
+      husbands opinions. In time you may learn to share them, and then we should
+      be further apart than ever. At present, it is my sole comfort to know you
+      possess that living faith without which every soul is lost.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Lost?&rdquo; she repeated, in a bewildering way, not looking at him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t mean in the vulgar sense; the theological ideas of damnation have
+      never had my sanction, far less my sympathy. But materialism degrades the
+      believer, and sooner or later comes a disbelief in all that is holy,
+      beautiful, and sanctified. It is a humble creed, the new creed of science,
+      and fatal to spiritual hopes.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Does it matter so much what one believes, if one&rsquo;s life is good?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It matters so much that I would rather see one I loved dead before my
+      feet than an avowed unbeliever. But there, I have not come to preach to
+      you. When does Mr. Haldane return?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;As I told you: in a fortnight, perhaps sooner.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And during his absence we shall meet again, I hope?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She hesitated and looked at him. His eyes were fixed on the distant woods,
+      though he stood expectantly, as if awaiting her reply, which did not come.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Can you not trust me?&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;You know I am your friend?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I hope so; but I think it is best that you should not come here. If you
+      were married, it would be different.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I shall not marry,&rdquo; he replied impatiently. &ldquo;What then? I am a priest of
+      God, and you may trust me fully. If our Church commenced the confessional,
+      you might enter it without fear, and I&mdash;I would listen to the
+      outpourings of your heart. Should you in your grief be afraid to utter
+      them?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She moved away from him, turning her back; but betrayed herself. He saw
+      the bright colour mount to her neck and mantle there.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What nonsense you talk!&rdquo; she said presently, with a forced laugh. &ldquo;Are
+      you going over to Rome?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I might go over to the evil place itself, Ellen, if <i>you</i> were
+      there.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      There was no mistaking the words, the tone, in their diabolic gentleness,
+      their suavity of supreme and total self-surrender. She felt helpless in
+      spite of herself. The man was overmastering her, and rapidly encroaching.
+      She felt like a person morally stifled, and with a strong effort tried to
+      shake the evil influence away.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I was right,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;We must not meet.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He smiled sadly.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;As you please. I will come, or I will go, at your will. You have only to
+      say to me, &lsquo;Go and destroy yourself, obliterate yourself for ever from my
+      life, blot yourself out from the roll of living beings,&rsquo; and I shall obey
+      you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Her spirit revolted more and more against the steadfast, self-assured
+      obliquity of the man. She saw that he was desperate, and that the danger
+      grew with his desperation. In every word he spoke, and in his whole
+      manner, there was the sombre assurance of something between them, of some
+      veiled, but excitable sympathy, which she herself utterly ignored. That
+      moment of wild delirium, when he caught her in his arms and kissed her,
+      seemed, instead of severing them, to have made a link between them. He had
+      been conscious of her indignation, he had even professed penitence; but
+      she saw to her dismay that the fact of his folly filled him, not with
+      fear, but with courage. So she determined to end it once and for ever.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Let us understand each other,&rdquo; she said, trembling violently. &ldquo;How dare
+      you talk as if there was any community of feeling between us? How dare you
+      presume upon my patience, Mr. Santley? It is wretched; it is abominable!
+      When you talk of killing yourself, when you assume that I have any serious
+      interest in you, or any right over you, you insult me and degrade
+      yourself. We are nothing, and can be nothing to each other.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I know that,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;Do you think I am so mad as not to know that?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then why do you come here to torture me, and to tempt me?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The word came from her before she knew it, and her face became scarlet;
+      but he uttered no protest, and raised his white hand in deprecation.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Tempt you? God forbid!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I did not mean that,&rdquo; she murmured, in confusion; &ldquo;but you must know, you
+      cannot fail to know, that it is not right for a married woman to receive
+      such expressions of sympathy, however spiritual. It is that which makes me
+      hate the Catholic Church. The priest promises you his office, and too
+      often makes mischief under the guise of religion.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Do you accuse me of doing so?&rdquo; he demanded, in the same sad, calm voice.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No; but you should remember that you have not the custody of my soul, and
+      I have no right to influence your actions. Come,&rdquo; she continued, with
+      rather a forced laugh, &ldquo;talk to me like a true English clergyman. Tell me
+      of the old women of the village, and their ailments; ask me for a
+      subscription to give to your new soup kitchen; talk to me as if Mr.
+      Haldane were listening to us&mdash;of your schools, your parish troubles&mdash;and
+      you shall find me an eager listener!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I will talk of anything, Ellen, so long as I may talk to you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Again that manner of despairing certainty, of assured and fatal sympathy.
+      The man was incorrigible.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      She waited impatiently for some minutes, but finding he did not speak
+      again, she held out her hand.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Since you have nothing more to tell me,&rdquo; she observed lightly, &ldquo;I think I
+      will say good morning. I am going to order the carriage and drive to
+      Omberley.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;When may I come again?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;When you have anything really parochial to say to me. Please go now.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Their eyes met, and hers sank beneath his own.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As he crossed towards the door it opened, and Baptisto appeared upon the
+      threshold.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Did you ring, senora?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      At the sight of the Spaniard&rsquo;s dull impressive face Mrs. Haldane started
+      violently, and went a little pale. She had heard nothing of his return,
+      and he came like an apparition.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Baptisto! What are you doing here? I thought&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She paused in wonder, while the Spaniard inclined his head and bowed
+      profoundly.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I was taken with a vertigo at the station, and the senor permitted me to
+      return.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then your master has gone alone?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, senora.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Very well. Order the carriage at once. I am going out.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Baptisto bowed and retired, quickly closing the door.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Santley, who had stood listening during the above conversation, now
+      prepared to follow, but, glancing at Ellen, saw that she was unusually
+      agitated.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That is a sinister-looking fellow,&rdquo; he remarked. &ldquo;I am afraid he has
+      frightened you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Indeed, no,&rdquo; she replied; &ldquo;though I confess I was startled at his
+      unexpected return. Good-bye.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Good-bye,&rdquo; he said, again taking her hand and holding it up a moment in
+      his own.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Passing from the drawing-room, he again came face to face with Baptisto,
+      who was lurking in the lobby, but who drew aside with a respectful bow, to
+      allow the clergyman to pass.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He crossed the hall, descended the stone steps of the portico, and walked
+      slowly towards the lodge. As he passed the ruined chapel, its shadows
+      seemed to fall upon his spirit and leave it in ominous darkness. He
+      shivered slightly, and drew his cloak about him, then with his eyes cast
+      down he thoughtfully walked on.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He did not glance back. Had he done so, he would have seen Baptisto
+      standing on the steps of the Manor house, watching him with a sinister
+      smile.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      CHAPTER XV. CONJURATION.
+    </h2>
+    <p class="pfirst">
+      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was a chill day
+      in early autumn, and as Charles Santley passed along the dark avenue of
+      the Manor his path was strewn here and there with freshly fallen leaves.
+      Dark shadows lay on every side, and the heaven above was full of a sullen,
+      cheerless light. It was just the day for a modern Faust, in the course of
+      his noonday walk, to encounter, in some fancied guise, canine or human,
+      the evil one of old superstition.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Be that as it may, Santley knew at last that the hour of his temptation
+      was over, and that the evil one was not far away. He knew it, by the
+      sullen acquiescence of evil of his own soul; by the deliberate and
+      despairing precision with which he had chosen the easy and downward path;
+      by the sense of darkness which already obliterated the bright moral
+      instincts in his essentially religious mind. He had spoken the truth when
+      he said he would follow Ellen Haldane anywhere, even to the eternal pit
+      itself. Her beauty possessed him and disturbed him with the joy of impure
+      thoughts; and now that he perceived his own power to trouble her peace of
+      mind, he rejoiced at the strength of his passion with a truly diabolic
+      perversity.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As he came out of the lodge gate he saw, far away over the fields, the
+      spire of his own church.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He laughed to himself.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But the man&rsquo;s faith in spiritual things, so far from being shaken, was as
+      strong as ever. His own sense of moral deterioration, of spiritual
+      backsliding, only made him believe all the more fervently in the heaven
+      from which he had fallen, or might choose to fall. For it is surely a
+      mistake to picture, as so many poets have pictured, the evil spirit as one
+      ignorant of or insensible to good. Far wiser is the theology which
+      describes Satan as the highest of angelic spirits&mdash;the spirit which,
+      above all others, had beheld and contemplated the Godhead, and had then,
+      in sheer revolt and negation, deliberately and advisedly decided its own
+      knowledge and rejected its own truthright. Santley was, in his basest
+      moods, essentially a godly man&mdash;a man strangely curious of the beauty
+      of goodness, and capable of infinite celestial dreams. If, like many
+      another, he confused the flesh and the spirit, he did no more than many
+      sons of Eve have done.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As he walked slowly along he mused, somewhat to this effect&mdash;&ldquo;I love
+      this woman. In her heart she loves me. Her superior spiritual endowments
+      are mystically alive to those I myself possess. Her husband is a clod, an
+      unbeliever, with no spiritual promptings. In his sardonic presence, her
+      aspirations are chilled, frozen at the very fountain-head; whereas, in
+      mine, all the sweetness and the power of her nature are aroused, though
+      with a certain irritation. If I persist, she must yield to the slow moral
+      mesmerism of my passion, and eventually fall. Is this necessarily evil? Am
+      I of set purpose sinning? Is it not possible that even a breach of the
+      moral law might, under certain conditions, lead us both to a higher
+      religious place&mdash;yes, even to a deeper and intenser consciousness of
+      God?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      And again&mdash;&ldquo;What <i>is</i> sin? Surely it is better than moral
+      stagnation, which is death. There are certain deflections from duty which,
+      like the side stroke of a bird&rsquo;s wing, may waft us higher. In the arms of
+      this woman, I should surely be nearer God than crawling alone on the bare
+      path of duty, loving nothing, hoping nothing, becoming nothing. What is it
+      that Goethe says of the Eternal Feminine which lead us ever upward and
+      onward? Which was the highest, Faust before he loved Marguerite, or Faust
+      after he passed out of the shadow of his sin into the sphere of imperial
+      and daring passion? I believe in God, I love this woman. Out of that
+      belief, and that love, shall I not become a living soul?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Was this the man&rsquo;s own musing, or rather the very devil whispering in his
+      ear? From such fragmentary glimpses of his mind as have been given, we can
+      at least guess the extent of his intellectual degradation.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As he walked along the country road, his pale countenance became seraphic;
+      just so may the face of Lucifer have looked when he plumed his wings for
+      deliberate flight from heaven.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He stepped into a roadside farm and had a glass of milk, which the good
+      woman of the place handed to him with a sentiment of adoration; he looked
+      so gentle, so at peace with all living things. His white hand rested for a
+      moment on the head of her little girl, in gentle benediction. He had never
+      felt more tenderly disposed to all creation than at that moment, when he
+      was prepared to dip a pen into his own hearts blood, and sign the little
+      promissory note which Mephistopheles carries, always ready, in his pocket.
+      He had hated his congregation before; now he loved them exceedingly&mdash;and
+      all the world.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      CHAPTER XVI. AT THE OPERA.
+    </h2>
+    <p class="pfirst">
+      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>n arriving in
+      London, George Haldane was driven straight to the house of an old friend
+      at Chelsea, where he always stayed during his visits to the Metropolis.
+      This friend was Lovell Blakiston, as eccentric a being in his own way as
+      Haldane himself was in his. He had been, since boyhood, in the India
+      Office, where he still put in an appearance several hours a day, and
+      whence he still drew a large income, with the immediate right to a
+      retiring pension whenever he choose to take it. He was a great student,
+      especially of the pagan poets and philosophers; and the greater part of
+      his days and nights were spent in his-old-fashioned library, opening with
+      folding doors on to a quiet lawn, which led in its turn to the very
+      river-side. He had two pet aversions&mdash;modern progress, in the shape
+      of railroads, electricity, geology; all the new business of science and
+      modern religion, especially in its connection with Christian theology. He
+      was, in short, a pagan pure and simple, fond of old books, old wine, old
+      meditations, and old gods. However he might differ with Haldane on such
+      subjects&rsquo; as the nebular hypothesis, which he hated with all his heart, he
+      agreed with him sufficiently on the subject of Christianity. Both had a
+      cordial dislike for church ceremonies and church bells.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The two gentlemen had another taste in common. This was the opera, which
+      both enjoyed hugely, though Blakiston never ceased to regret the
+      disappearance of that old operatic institution, the ballet, which, like a
+      rich dessert wine, used to bring the feast of music to a delightfully
+      sensuous conclusion. Haldane was too young a man to remember such visions
+      of loveliness as Cerito, whom his old friend had often gone to see in
+      company with Horne Took.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      So it happened that two or three days after his arrival, Haldane
+      accompanied his host to the opera house, where Patti was to appear in
+      &ldquo;Traviata.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Seated comfortably in the stalls, he was glancing quietly round the house
+      between the acts, when his attention was attracted to a face in one of the
+      private boxes. A pale, Madonna-like, yet girlish face, set in golden hair,
+      with soft blue eyes, and an expression so forlorn, so wistful, so ill at
+      ease, that it was almost painful to behold.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Haldane started in surprise.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What is the matter?&rdquo; said his friend; &ldquo;Have you recognized anybody?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am not certain,&rdquo; returned Haldane, raising his opera-glass and
+      surveying the face through them. Then, after a long look, he added&rsquo; as if
+      to himself, &ldquo;I am almost sure it is the same.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Do you mean that young lady in black, seated in the second tier?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes. Oblige me by looking at her, and tell me what you think of her.&rdquo;
+       Blakiston raised his opera-glass, and took a long look.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo; asked Haldane.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;She reminds me of one of your detestable pre-Raphaelistic drawings,
+      shockheaded and vacuous. She is pretty, I grant you, but she has no
+      expression.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I should say, on the contrary, a very marked expression of deep pain.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Tight lacing,&rdquo; grunted Blakiston. &ldquo;Your modern women have no shape, since
+      Cerito.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Here Haldane rose from his seat. Looking up again, he had met the young
+      lady&rsquo;s eyes, and had perceived at once that she recognized him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am going to speak to her,&rdquo; he explained. &ldquo;She is a neighbour of ours,
+      and a friend of my wife.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He made his way to the second tier, and finding the door of the box open,
+      he looked in, and saw the person he sought, seated in company with an
+      elderly lady and a young man.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Miss Dove!&rdquo; he said, advancing into the box. &ldquo;Although we have only met
+      twice, I thought I could not be mistaken.&rdquo; Edith (for it was she) turned
+      quickly and took his outstretched hand..
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;How strange to find you here!&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;Is Mrs. Haldane with you?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, indeed. I left her to the pious duties of the parish, which she is
+      fulfilling daily, I expect, in company with your seraphic friend the
+      minister.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Edith looked at him with strange surprise, but said nothing.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;When did you come to town?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;I thought you were quite a country
+      young lady, and never ventured into the giddy world of London.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I was not very well,&rdquo; replied Edith, &ldquo;and my aunt invited me to stop with
+      her a few weeks. This is my aunt, Mrs. Hetherington; and this gentleman is
+      my cousin Walter.&rdquo; Here Edith went somewhat nervously through the ceremony
+      of introduction. She added, with a slight flush, &ldquo;My cousin insisted on
+      bringing us here to-night. I did not wish to come.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo; demanded Haldane, noticing her uneasiness.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Because I did not think it right; and I have been thinking all the
+      evening what the vicar will say when I tell him I have been to such a
+      place.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Here the old lady shook her head ominously, and gave a slight groan.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Is the place so terrible,&rdquo; asked Haldane, smiling, &ldquo;now you have seen
+      it?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, it is very pretty; and of course the singing is beautiful. But Mr.
+      Santley does not approve of the theatre, and I am sorry I came.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Nonsense, Edith,&rdquo; said young Hetherington, with a laugh. &ldquo;You know you
+      wanted to see the &lsquo;Traviata,&rsquo; The fact is,&rdquo; he continued, turning to
+      Haldane, &ldquo;my mother and my cousin are both terribly old-fashioned. My
+      mother here is Scotch, and believes in the kirk, the whole kirk, and
+      nothing but the kirk; and as for Edith, she is entirely, as they say in
+      Scotland, under the minister&rsquo;s &lsquo;thoomb.&rsquo; I thought they would have enjoyed
+      themselves, but they have been doing penance all the evening.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Without paying attention to her cousin&rsquo;s remarks, Edith was looking
+      thoughtfully at Haldane.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;When do you return to Omberley?&rdquo; she asked.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am not sure&mdash;in a fortnight, at the latest. I am going on to
+      France.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And Mrs. Haldane will remain all that time alone?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;Oh, she will not miss me. She has her household
+      duties, her parish, her garden&mdash;to say nothing of her clergyman. And
+      you, do <i>you</i> stay long in London?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am not sure; I think not. I am tired of it already.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Again that weary, wistful look, which sat so strangely on the young,
+      almost childish face. She sighed, and gazed sadly around the crowded
+      house. A minute later, Haldane took his leave, and rejoined his friend in
+      the stalls. Looking up at the end of the next act, he saw that the box was
+      empty.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The women had yielded to their consciences, and departed before the end of
+      the performance.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      That night, when Haldane went home to Chelsea, he found a letter from his
+      wife. It was a long letter, but contained no news whatever, being chiefly
+      occupied with self-reproaches that the writer had not accompanied her
+      husband in his pilgrimage. This struck Haldane as rather peculiar, as in
+      former communications Ellen had expressed no such dissatisfaction; but he
+      was by nature and of set habit unsuspicious, and he set it down to some
+      momentary <i>ennui</i>. The letter contained no mention whatever of Mr.
+      Santley, but in the postscript, where ladies often put the most
+      interesting part of their correspondence, there was a reference to the
+      Spanish valet, Baptisto.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;As I told you,&rdquo; wrote Ellen, &ldquo;Baptisto seems in excellent health, though
+      he is mysterious and unpleasant as usual. He comes and goes like a ghost,
+      but if he made you believe that he was ill, he was imposing upon you. I do
+      so wish you had taken him with you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Haldane folded up the letter with a smile.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Poor Baptisto!&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;I suppose it is as I suspected, and the
+      little widow at the lodge is at the bottom of it all.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      After a few days&rsquo; sojourn at Chelsea, during which time he was much
+      interested in certain spiritualistic investigations which were just then
+      being conducted by the London <i>savants</i>, to the manifest confusion of
+      the spirits and indignation of true believers, Haldane went to Paris,
+      where he read his paper before the French Society to which he belonged.
+      There we shall leave him for a little time, returning to the company of
+      Miss Dove, with whom we have more immediate concern.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Mother and son lived in a pleasant house overlooking Clapham Common, a
+      district famous for its religious edification, its young ladies&rsquo; 
+      seminaries, and its dissenting chapels. Mrs. Hethering-ton was the wealthy
+      widow of a Glasgow merchant, long settled in London, and she set her face
+      rigidly against modern thought, ecclesiastical vestments, and cooking on
+      the sabbath. Curiously enough, her son Walter, who inherited a handsome
+      competence, was a painter, and followed his heathen occupation with much
+      talent, and more youthful enthusiasm. His landscapes, chiefly of Highland
+      scenes, had been exhibited in the Royal Scottish Academy. His mother,
+      whose highest ideas of art were founded on a superficial acquaintance with
+      the Scripture pieces of Noel Paton, and an occasional contemplation of
+      biblical masterpieces in the Doré Gallery, would have preferred to have
+      seen him following in his fathers footsteps, and even entering the true
+      kirk as a preacher; but his sympathies were pagan, and a gloomy childish
+      experience had not fitted him with the requisite enthusiasm for John
+      Calvin and the sabbath.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Walter Hetherington was a fine fresh young fellow of three and twenty, and
+      belonged to the clever set of Scotch painters, headed by Messrs. Pettie,
+      Richardson, and Peter Graham. He was &ldquo;cannie&rdquo; painstaking, and rather
+      sceptical, and, putting aside his art, which he really loved, he felt true
+      enthusiasm for only one thing in the world&mdash;his cousin Edith, whom he
+      hoped and longed to make his wife.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As a very young girl, Edith had seemed rather attached to him; but of late
+      years, during which they saw each other only at long intervals, she seemed
+      colder and colder to his advances. He noticed her indifference, and set it
+      down somewhat angrily to girlish fanaticism, for he had little or no
+      suspicion whatever that another man&rsquo;s image might be filling her thoughts.
+      Once or twice, it is true, when she sounded the praises of her Omberley
+      pastor, his zeal, his goodness, his beauty of discourse, he asked himself
+      if he could possibly have a rival <i>there</i>; but knowing something of
+      the relinquent fancies of young vestals, he rejected the idea. To tell the
+      truth, he rather pitied the Rev. Mr. Santley, whom he had never seen, as a
+      hardheaded, dogmatic, elderly creature of the type greatly approved by his
+      mother, and abundant even in Clapham. He had no idea of an Adonis in a
+      clerical frock coat, with a beautiful profile, white hands, and a voice
+      gentle and low&mdash;the latter an excellent thing in woman, but a
+      dangerous thing in an unmarried preacher of the Word.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      CHAPTER XVII. WALTER HETHERINGTON.
+    </h2>
+    <p class="pfirst">
+      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hen the party got
+      home from the opera, it was only half-past ten. They sat down to a frugal
+      supper in the dining-room.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am sorry you did not wait till the last act,&rdquo; said the young man, after
+      an awkward silence. &ldquo;Patti&rsquo;s death scene is magnificent.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m thinking we heard enough,&rdquo; his mother replied. &ldquo;I never cared much
+      for play-acting, and I see little sense in screeching about in a foreign
+      tongue. I&rsquo;d rather have half an hour of the Reverend Mr. Mactavish&rsquo;s
+      discourses than a night of fooling like yon.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What do <i>you</i> say, Edith? I&rsquo;m sure the music was very pretty.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, it was beautiful; but not knowing much of Italian, I could not
+      gather what it was all about.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is an operatic version of a story of the younger Dumas,&rdquo; explained
+      Walter, with an uncomfortable sense of treading on dangerous ground. &ldquo;The
+      story is that of a beautiful woman who has lived an evil life, and is
+      reformed through her affection for a young Frenchman. His friends think he
+      is degrading himself by offering to marry her, and to cure him she
+      pretends to be false and wicked. In the end, she dies in his arms,
+      broken-hearted. It is a very touching subject, I think, though some people
+      consider it immoral.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Here the matron broke in with quiet severity.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I wonder yon woman&mdash;Patti, you call her&mdash;doesn&rsquo;t think shame to
+      appear in such dresses. One of them was scarcely decent, and I was almost
+      ashamed to look at her&mdash;the creature!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But her singing, mother, her singing; was it not divine?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It was meeddling loud; but I&rsquo;ve heard far finer in the kirk. Edith, my
+      bairn, you&rsquo;re tired, I&rsquo;m thinking. We&rsquo;ll just read a chapter, and get to
+      bed.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      So the chapter was read, and the ladies retired, while Walter walked off
+      to his studio to have a quiet pipe. He was too used to his mother&rsquo;s
+      peculiarities to be much surprised at the failure of the evening&rsquo;s
+      entertainment; but he felt really amazed that Edith had not been more
+      impressed.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The next morning, when they met at breakfast, Edith astonished both her
+      aunt and cousin by expressing her wish to return to Omberley as soon as
+      possible.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Go away already!&rdquo; cried the young man. &lsquo;&ldquo;Why, you&rsquo;ve hardly been here a
+      week, and you&rsquo;ve seen nothing of town, and we&rsquo;ve all the picture-galleries
+      to visit yet.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And you have not heard Mr. Mactavish discoorse,&rdquo; cried his mother. &ldquo;No,
+      no; you must bide awhile.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      But Edith shook her head, and they saw her mind was made up.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I can come again at Christmas, but I would rather go now,&rdquo; she said.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But why have you changed your mind?&rdquo; inquired her cousin eagerly.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I think they want me at home; and there is a great deal of church work to
+      be done in the village.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Walter was not deceived by this excuse, and tried persuasion, but it was
+      of no avail. The girl was determined to return home immediately. He little
+      knew the real cause of her determination. Haldane&rsquo;s presence in London had
+      filled her, in spite of herself, with jealous alarm. Ellen Haldane was
+      alone at the Manor, with no husband&rsquo;s eyes to trouble her; and, despite
+      the clergyman&rsquo;s oath of fidelity, Edith could not trust him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Yes, she would go home. It was time to put an end to it all, to remind
+      Santley of his broken promises, and to claim their fulfilment. If he
+      refused to do her justice, she would part from him for ever; not, however,
+      without letting the other woman, her rival, know his true character.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It was arranged that she should leave by an early train next morning. For
+      the greater part of the day she kept her room, engaged in preparations for
+      the journey; but towards evening Walter found her alone in the
+      drawing-room. The old lady, his mother, who earnestly wished him to marry
+      his cousin, had contrived to be out of the way.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am so sorry you are going,&rdquo; the young man said. &ldquo;We see so little of
+      each other now.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Edith was seated with her back to the window, her face in deep shade. She
+      knew by her cousin&rsquo;s manner that he was more than usually agitated, and
+      she dreaded what was coming&mdash;what had come, indeed, on several
+      occasions before. She did not answer, but almost unconsciously heaved a
+      deep sigh.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Does that mean that you are sorry too?&rdquo; asked Walter, leaning towards her
+      to see her face.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Of course I am sorry,&rdquo; she replied, with a certain constraint.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I wish I could believe that. Somehow or other, Edith, it seems to me that
+      you would rather be anywhere than here. Well, you have some cause; for the
+      house is dreary enough, and we are all dull people. But you and I used to
+      be such friends! More like brother and sister than mere cousins. Is that
+      all over? Are we to drift farther and farther apart as the years pass on?
+      It seems to me as if it might come to that.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;How absurd you are!&rdquo; said Edith, trying to force a laugh, but failing
+      lamentably. &ldquo;You know I was always fond of you and&mdash;and&mdash;of your
+      mother.&rdquo; Walter winced under the sting of the last sentence, so
+      unconsciously given.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t mean that at all,&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;Of course you liked us, as
+      relations like each other; but am I never to be more to you than a mere
+      cousin? You know I love you, that I have loved you ever since we were boy
+      and girl; and once&mdash;ah, yes, I thought you cared for me a little.
+      Edith, what does it mean? Why are you so changed?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Edith was more deeply changed than ever her cousin could guess. Had he
+      been able to see her face, he would have been wonder-stricken at its
+      expression of mingled shame and despair. She tried to reply; but before
+      she could do so her voice was choked, and her tears began to fall. In a
+      moment he was close beside her, and bending over her, with one hand
+      outstretched to clasp her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Now, you are crying. Edith, my darling, what is it?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t touch me,&rdquo; she sobbed, shrinking from him. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t bear it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Forgive me, if I have said anything to pain you; and oh, my darling!
+      remember it is my love that carries me away. I do love you, Edith. I wish
+      to God I could prove to you how much!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He took her hand in his; but she drew it forcibly from him, and, shrinking
+      still further away, entirely losing her self-control, sobbed silently.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t!&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;For pity&rsquo;s sake, be silent. You do not know what
+      you are saying. I am not fit to become your wife.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He moved a few steps from her, and waited until her wild, hysterical
+      sobbing should have ceased. She commanded herself quickly, as it the wild
+      outburst which she had not been able to control had terrified her. Then
+      she rose, and would have left the room, but the young man stopped her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Edith,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;surely you did not mean what you said just now, that
+      you are not fit to become my wife?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she replied quickly; &ldquo;I did mean it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She was glad that her face, was turned from him, and that the room was in
+      partial darkness. She was glad that she was able to steady her voice, and
+      to give a direct reply.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He did not answer; she felt he was waiting for her to speak on.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Even if two people love each other,&rdquo; she said, trembling, &ldquo;or only think
+      they do, which is too often the case, they have no right to thoughtlessly
+      contract that holy tie. There cannot be perfect happiness in this world
+      without perfect spiritual communion. I know&mdash;I feel sure&mdash;that
+      this does not exist between you and me.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The young man flushed, and his brow contracted somewhat angrily.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Take time to think it over,&rdquo; he said quickly; &ldquo;this is not your own heart
+      that is speaking now. The seeds which that man, your clergyman, has been
+      sowing in your heart have borne fruit. Religion is changing your whole
+      nature. It is alienating you hopelessly from all to whom you are so dear;
+      it is making you unjust, cruelly unkind, to yourself, but doubly so to
+      others, under the shallow pretence that you are serving God!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She did not interrupt him; but when he ceased, she put out her hand and
+      said, quickly but firmly&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Good night.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Good night,&rdquo; he repeated. &ldquo;It is so early, surely you are not going
+      to-your room already? This is our last night together, remember.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am so tired,&rdquo; returned the girl, wearily. &ldquo;I must get a good night&rsquo;s
+      rest, since I am to start early in the morning.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And you will not say another word?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know that there is anything more that I can say.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are angry with me, Edith. Before you go, say at least that you
+      forgive me.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am not angry; indeed, I am glad you have spoken. I know now I should
+      never have come here. I know I must never come again.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      So, without another word, they parted. Edith went up to her room. Walter
+      sought his, and there he remained all the evening, sitting in the
+      darkness, pondering over the unaccountable change which had taken place in
+      the girl.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Yes, she was changed; but was it hopeless, and altogether unexpected?
+      Might she not, with gentle care, be freed from this hateful influence of
+      the Church? Walter believed that might be so. Already he seemed to see
+      light through the cloud, and to trace the secret of this man&rsquo;s influence
+      over her. Edith was imaginative and highly fanatical; he had appealed to
+      her imagination. Being a High Church clergyman, he had employed two
+      powerful agents&mdash;colour and form. He had scattered the shrine at
+      which she worshipped with soft and durable perfumes, and had set up sacred
+      symbols; and he had said, &ldquo;Kneel before these; cast down all your worldly
+      wishes and earthly affections.&rdquo; She, being intoxicated, as it were, had
+      yielded to the spell. It was part of his plan, thought Walter, that she
+      must neither marry nor form any other earthly tie; for was it not through
+      her, and such as her, that his beloved Church was able to sustain its full
+      prestige? The Church must reign supreme in her heart, as it had done in
+      that of many another vestal; it was at the altar alone that her gifts of
+      love and devotion must be burned. She must be sacrificed, as many others
+      had been before her, and the Church would stand.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This was the young man&rsquo;s true view of the case. He believed it, for he had
+      learnt in his home to hate other worldliness; but though he fancied he saw
+      the nature of the discord, he could not as yet perceive the directest
+      means of cure.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The next morning, when Edith, looking very pale and weary, but still very
+      pretty in her simple travelling costume, came down to breakfast, she was a
+      little surprised to find Walter already there. His manner was kind and
+      considerate, as it had always been, and he made no reference whatever to
+      what had passed between them on the previous night. They sat and carried
+      on a constrained but polite conversation; but both were glad when it was
+      interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Hetherington. The old lady was filled
+      with genuine regret at her niece&rsquo;s sudden departure, and, while presiding
+      at the breakfast-table, was so busy laying down plans for her speedy
+      return that she did not notice that every morsel on Edith&rsquo;s plate remained
+      untouched, and that, while sipping her tea, her eyes wandered continually
+      towards the window, as if anxiously watching for the cab which was to take
+      her away. Walter noticed it with pain, and remained discreetly silent.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As soon as the cab arrived, he left the room, ostensibly to superintend
+      the removal of Ediths luggage, but in reality to be absent at the
+      leave-taking between his mother and his cousin.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He accompanied Edith to the station. It was merely an act of common
+      courtesy, to which she could make no possible objection. On the way there
+      was very little said on either side. She was silent from preoccupation,
+      and he feared to tread on dangerous ground. But when they were near their
+      parting, when Edith was comfortably seated in the train, and he stood by
+      the open carriage door, he ventured in a covert manner to refer to what
+      had passed.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;The house will be brighter in wintertime,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and we shall have
+      more means of amusing you. You will come back at Christmas, Edith?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She started, dropped his hand, and drew herself from him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, I think not,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;it is always a busy time with us at
+      Christmas. There is much to be done in the church.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      This was their good-bye; for before he could say more the guard noisily
+      closed the carriage doors, and whistled shrilly. Mechanically Walter took
+      off his hat, and stood sadly watching the train as it moved away.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      CHAPTER XVIII. CHURCH BELLS&mdash;AND A DISCORD.
+    </h2>
+    <p class="pfirst">
+      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">E</span>dith was glad that
+      the next day was Sunday. She rose early, dressed hurriedly, and went for a
+      walk in the fresh morning air. She felt instinctively that she had a
+      battle to fight, and that all her resources must be brought into play to
+      gain her the victory. If her influence over the man was to continue, she
+      knew there was one way by which she could regain it. With such pale cheeks
+      and lacklustre eyes as she had brought with her from London, where, she
+      asked, would her chances be against Ellen Haldane&rsquo;s fresh country charms?
+      She must banish all painful thoughts for the present, and try to win back
+      the roses which he had caused to fade.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      She walked for above an hour; and when she returned home, she went
+      straight into the garden to gather a little bouquet of flowers. Then she
+      went up to her room to dress for church. When she came down to breakfast,
+      she wore her prettiest costume, and the bunch of flowers was fastened at
+      her throat.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Her aunt had a headache, she said, and could not go to church. Edith was
+      not sorry; indeed, when the time came for her to set out, she was glad she
+      was alone.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      She arrived at the church rather earlier than usual, nevertheless she
+      walked straight in, and no sooner had she crossed the threshold than she
+      obeyed a sudden impulse which seized her, and determined for that day at
+      least not to occupy her usual seat. She selected one which was some
+      distance from the pulpit, but from which she could command an excellent
+      view of the pew belonging to Foxglove Manor.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The congregation gathered, but the Haldane&rsquo;s pew was empty. Edith watched
+      it with feverish impatience. Presently, just as the tolling bell was about
+      to cease, she saw Mrs. Haldane enter and take her seat.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Two minutes later, Mr. Santley, clothed in his white, priestly robes,
+      ascended the steps of the reading-desk, and bent his beautiful head in
+      prayer. As he rose to his feet, Edith, who had been watching him in
+      extreme fascination, saw his gaze wandering round the church, and finally
+      fix upon the face of the mistress of Foxglove Manor. She saw, or thought
+      she saw, the lady&rsquo;s eyelids quiver and finally droop beneath that glance;
+      while the clergyman arose, like a sick man suddenly restored to health,
+      and began to read the lessons for the day.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      How that morning passed Edith scarcely knew. She remained like one in a
+      dream, mechanically going though the religious forms, but feeling as if
+      her heart&rsquo;s blood was slowly ebbing away. Of one thing only she was
+      conscious&mdash;that of all those upturned faces before him the clergyman
+      seemed to see but one, but that from this one face seemed to draw his
+      inspiration, as the earth draws life and light from the shining rays of
+      the sun.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At length the service was over, the congregation dispersed, and Edith
+      found herself walking up and down the quiet lanes alone, panting for air,
+      feeling sick at heart, and shivering through and through, though she stood
+      in the warm rays of sunlight. Go home she could not. She must see Mr.
+      Santley before she could face another human soul.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      She turned, intending to go to the Vicarage, but when she was yet within
+      some distance of the house, she saw coming towards her the very man she
+      sought.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      She paused, not knowing whether to feel glad or sorry. It was certainly
+      better than having to go to the Vicarage, yet now that the meeting was so
+      near, she shrank from it. She made a desperate effort to compose herself,
+      and paused, waiting for him. The clergyman was evidently lost in deep
+      thought, his head was bent, his eyes were fixed on the ground, and he was
+      quite close to Edith before he saw her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When their eyes met he paused, almost involuntarily, a momentary flush of
+      mingled annoyance and surprise passed over his face, then he recovered
+      himself, walked forward, and quietly extended his hand.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Miss Dove!&rdquo; he said, glancing nervously round. &ldquo;I had no idea you were at
+      home. How do you do?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      It had been agreed between them, long before, that so long as their secret
+      remained a secret, no warmer greeting than this must be exchanged between
+      them in public. When the proposition had been made, Edith had quietly
+      assented. What was it to her that Santley should bow his head with a
+      politeness even more frigid than he bestowed upon any one of his flock.
+      Had she not seen the burning light of love in his half-lowered eyes? and
+      had she not known that a few hours later she would feel his caressing arms
+      about her, and hear his rich, mellow voice whispering tenderly in her ear?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But now all was changed. The frigid bow which had formerly been the
+      prologue, had rapidly developed into the play. There were no stolen
+      meetings now; no consoling whisperings. The clergyman had latterly become
+      alive to the risk of such indulgences, and had gradually allowed them to
+      cease; and Edith, receiving as her portion the cold bow and cold handshake
+      that every eye might have seen, had watched the love light gradually fade
+      from her hero&rsquo;s eyes.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But she had never seen him so cold as to-day. When their eyes had met, she
+      had noticed the look of positive annoyance which had passed across his
+      face. It had soon fled, but when he spoke and extended his hand, his face
+      had assumed a look of cold severity.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Edith did not speak; the painful beating of her heart almost stifled her,
+      and her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. She extended her hand; the
+      cold, listless touch of his fingers throbbed through her like ice. The
+      clergyman saw her trouble, and again that look of impatient annoyance
+      passed across his face then he raised his brows in calm surprise.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What is the matter?&rdquo; he asked quickly. &ldquo;Has some domestic trouble caused
+      your sudden return home?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She withdrew her hand from his cold, lax fingers, and answered, &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Then she turned and walked along in silence by his side.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The good man was annoyed, seriously annoyed. First at her sudden
+      appearance in the village, when he believed she was safely bestowed in
+      London for several weeks to come; next at the <i>rôle</i> she thought fit
+      to assume. He hated scenes at any time; just now he particularly wished to
+      avoid one. So he walked on in silence, until he could command his voice to
+      speak quietly; then he said, in the most careless manner possible&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;<i>When</i> did you return home?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Last night. I attended church this morning.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She looked at him quickly, to see what effect her words produced.
+      Apparently they produced none. The clergymans face remained as coldly
+      impassive as before; he raised his brows slightly as he replied.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Indeed! I did not see you there.&rdquo; Then, after a pause, he added, &ldquo;Your
+      return was very sudden, was it not? I thought you intended staying away
+      for some time.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I changed my mind. I thought you would have been glad to have me back
+      again.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Then, swept on by a wild impulse, which she could not possibly restrain,
+      she added slowly, but tremulously&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Charles, are you <i>sorry</i> I have come?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The clergyman started, flushed, then quickly recovered himself, as he
+      added&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Sorry, my dear Edith? What a question! Why of course I am not sorry.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then, why not say that you are glad? Why not let me know it? Don&rsquo;t you
+      see you are breaking my heart?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Santley paused, and looked at her. He did not flush this time, his face
+      grew white as marble, his eyes quite steel-like in their coldness. He had
+      dreaded a scene, but this was so very much worse than he had expected; for
+      by this time Edith had lost all self-control, and was sobbing violently.
+      His face hardened terribly. He must put an end once and for ever to such
+      unpleasant encounters.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Edith, have you lost your senses?&rdquo; he said; and the bitterness of his
+      tone was like putting a knife into the girl&rsquo;s heart. &ldquo;If you wish to
+      perform in such scenes as this, you could surely find some other time and
+      place than the public road and the broad daylight. If you have anything to
+      say to me, you must come to me again in private. At present I have no more
+      time which I can place at your service. I have business with Mrs. Haldane,
+      who is waiting for me at the Vicarage; and my duties at the church will
+      soon begin again.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He raised his hat, and would have moved away, but Edith laid her hand upon
+      his arm and forcibly detained him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Stop!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;One word! You shall not go. I must speak.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He turned upon her almost angrily; he attempted, but in vain, to shake off
+      her detaining hand.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Tell me,&rdquo; she cried; &ldquo;why are you going to meet Mrs. Haldane?&rdquo; Then,
+      before he could recover from his astonishment sufficiently to speak, she
+      added, &ldquo;You need not tell me, for I <i>know</i>. It is this woman who has
+      come between you and me. Oh, do you think I don&rsquo;t know that since she came
+      to the village you have been a changed man? What did I come home for?
+      Because I knew it was not right that you and she should be in the village
+      <i>alone</i>.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      This time the clergyman succeeded in shaking off her hand. The face which
+      he turned towards hers was almost livid in its pallor.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You forget yourself,&rdquo; he said, with a sternness which was even harder to
+      bear than bitter reproach. &ldquo;Well, I suppose you think you have a right to
+      insult me; but permit me to remind you that your right does not extend to
+      religious affairs, or to a lady who is the most esteemed member of my
+      congregation.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I have not insulted you, Charles; I am only warning you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are very kind,&rdquo; he interposed, with a sneer, &ldquo;but I am, in no greater
+      need of your warning than is the lady. Until you can learn how to control
+      your own words and actions, it would be better for <i>you</i> that we
+      should not meet.&rdquo; Again he moved, as if about to leave her; again she put
+      forth her hand, and held him fast. The scene had become more violent than
+      she had intended. It was now too late to pause.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;One more word,&rdquo; she sobbed. &ldquo;Promise me that you will not see her, then I
+      will promise never to mention this subject again.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Promise you what? To discontinue all communications with Mrs. Haldane?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, yes; that is all. It is not much to ask you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is much more than you have any right to ask. You have chosen to
+      connect my name dishonourably with a lady whom I esteem. Enough! I cannot
+      control your actions, but I mean to regulate my own. Good morning, Edith.
+      Since you have nothing more important to say to me, I suppose I am at
+      liberty to go?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He raised his hat and walked away, pausing a minute later to raise it
+      again, and to address some pleasant remark to a member of his
+      congregation, who happened at that moment to be coming along the road. It
+      was the sight of this stranger which prevented Edith from following, which
+      made her turn and walk with rapid steps towards her home. She felt cold
+      and sick and heart-broken, and she shrank from the sight of any human
+      face.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When she reached her home, she found her aunt, who had been surprised at
+      her protracted absence, gazing uneasily up and down the road. The sight of
+      the girl&rsquo;s pale, tear-stained face alarmed her, but Edith silenced her
+      inquiries by declaring that she had not been very well.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It was foolish of me, but I could not help crying at the service,&rdquo; she
+      said. &ldquo;Dear aunt, do not be anxious. I am better now, and only want rest.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Shall I send you up some dinner, darling?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No; nothing. I want to be alone&mdash;quite alone.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      So, with a weary, listless look upon her, the girl went up to her room,
+      and, having locked the door, she threw herself upon the bed, and cried as
+      if her heart were broken.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Meanwhile Mr. Santley went on his way, almost as much disturbed as Edith
+      herself. He was angry, terribly angry; for if scenes similar to the one
+      through which he had passed were allowed to continue, he anticipated a
+      storm of troubles in the future. But how to avoid them? What would be the
+      best and safest course to adopt? The good man was terribly perplexed. To
+      openly defy the girl might cause her, in her bitterness and pain, to
+      expose herself and him; which would certainly be awkward, since he wished,
+      above all things, to stand well with his congregation. And yet to adopt
+      any other course, he must at least pretend to subscribe to her conditions.
+      He must be content to renounce, or pretend to renounce, his intimacy with
+      Mrs. Haldane. The man of God was justly indignant.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Such a course, he knew, must not be thought of, and he resolved with pious
+      determination to continue Ellen Haldane&rsquo;s conversion, for which he was so
+      zealous and to leave matters between himself and Edith exactly as they
+      were.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He knew the girl&rsquo;s disposition. She would soon acknowledge her folly, and
+      make the first advances towards reconciliation. Well, then he would be
+      inclined to meet her half-way, but she must be the first to move. If, on
+      the other hand, she chose to take the unpleasant course of exposing him,
+      why, he would have but one alternative: he would simply deny her
+      statements, and who would believe her? It would be an unpleasant phase of
+      experience to have to pass through, and it would compel him to sacrifice a
+      fellow-creature.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Nevertheless, he acknowledged to himself, with the air of a Christian
+      martyr, that if she pushed him to extremities it would be necessary.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      After all, he hoped that Edith, shut up with her own grief, in the
+      solitude of her own room, would soon be brought to see the error of her
+      ways, and would make that first advance towards reconciliation which was
+      necessary for the peace of mind of both.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But, whatever might happen in the future, Edith had succeeded for that day
+      at least in completely destroying the good mans peace of mind. His
+      agitation was so great that he was compelled to walk about the quiet lanes
+      until his tranquillity was somewhat restored. Then he returned to the
+      Vicarage, where Mrs. Haldane was comfortably seated with his sister, and
+      enjoyed her society until the hour of his labours returned.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When he entered the church that afternoon, all the congregation thought he
+      was looking more seraphic than ever. Many a young heart fluttered with
+      holiness, and many an eyelid drooped reverently, before the calm serenity
+      of his gaze. As he stood facing his people, he cast his eyes around the
+      church. Edith was not there.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He turned the leaves of his gold-clasped volume, and as his rich voice
+      filled the church, and the congregation rose, he gazed once more about
+      him. This time his cheek flushed slightly, and a soft sigh of relief and
+      happiness escaped his parted lips. Mrs. Haldane was again in her place,
+      calmly joining in the prayers.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      That afternoon the clergyman preached like one inspired; all were
+      impressed but none were cognizant of the cause. Though the clergyman&rsquo;s
+      eyes wandered continually around the church, he saw only one face, was
+      conscious only of one presence. So engrossed was he, and so wrapped up in
+      his fervour of admiration, that he did not notice what was going on around
+      him. Had he done so, he would have seen that there was another member of
+      the congregation besides Mrs. Haldane who attracted a certain amount of
+      interest. Seated in the gallery, calmly joining in the service and
+      watching the minister, was the foreign &ldquo;gentleman with the eyes.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      CHAPTER XIX. HE IS BUT A LANDSCAPE PAINTER
+    </h2>
+    <p class="pfirst">
+      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>fter Edith&rsquo;s
+      departure from London, Walter Hetherington thought long and deeply over
+      the mysterious change in his cousin. The more he thought, the more uneasy
+      he grew. Of one thing he felt tolerably sure&mdash;that the girl had got
+      into the hands of, a religious fanatic, who either consciously or
+      unconsciously was completely destroying himself, his happiness&mdash;in
+      this world at least. She was fairly possessed by the fever of other
+      worldliness, he said to himself, and if left alone she would, like many
+      others before her, probably end her days in a mad house.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Having arrived at this enlightened conclusion, which was chiefly based on
+      what Edith had herself told him, Walter determined that she should not be
+      left alone. What would be more rational, he said to himself, than that he
+      should pack up his sketching paraphernalia and pay a short visit to the
+      picturesque little village where his aunt and cousin lived? Surely Edith
+      would be glad to see him, and while he remained to watch over her, his
+      time would not be entirely lost.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When he told his mother of his determination to revisit the country, the
+      old lady was unfeignedly glad. She suspected, from the unaccountable
+      sudden departure of the girl, that the two young people had had a quarrel,
+      and she was glad to see her son was magnanimous enough to make the first
+      advances towards reconciliation. So she helped him to put a few things
+      together, and on the spur of the moment he started off.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He had written neither to his cousin nor aunt to tell them of his coming.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &mdash;He had intended sending a telegram from the station, but at the
+      last moment he changed his mind, and as he sat in the train which was
+      rapidly whirling him onward, he began to ask himself whether it would be
+      judicious of him to go to his aunt&rsquo;s house at all. To be sure, he had
+      always made it his head-quarters; but now things were changed. Edith had
+      left his mother&rsquo;s house to avoid <i>him</i>; would it be fair to either of
+      them that he should become his aunt&rsquo;s guest? By living in the house he
+      would force from her a communication which might be very grudgingly given,
+      and at the same time his lips must be inevitably sealed. He finally
+      decided that, during the visit at least, it would be better for every one
+      that he should stay at the inn.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      So on arriving at the station he drove to the inn, secured at a cheap
+      price a couple of cosy rooms, and determined to delay calling upon his
+      relations until the following day.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The next day was fine, a fit day for an artist to lounge, dream, perhaps
+      work. Walter hung about the inn till midday; then he took his sketch-book
+      under his arm, and strolled forth in the direction of his aunt&rsquo;s cottage.
+      When he reached the door, and was about to knock, it was suddenly opened
+      by Edith, dressed in walking costume.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      On coming thus unexpectedly face to face with her cousin, she looked
+      manifestly angry.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Walter, you here?&rdquo; she said coldly; then she added quickly, &ldquo;Is anything
+      the matter at home?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Nothing whatever,&rdquo; said Walter, quietly giving his hand, and taking no
+      notice whatever of the irritation so plainly visible on her face. &ldquo;I got
+      tired of London, that was all, and thought a few days in the country might
+      do me good. I am not going to bore <i>you</i>. I have brought my working
+      tools down with me, and mean to take some sketches back.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But where is your luggage?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Down at the inn.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;At the inn?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes; I had it taken direct there last night. I was fortunate enough, too,
+      to secure rooms&mdash;a capital little parlour fit for a studio, and a
+      bedroom leading out of it. I shall be able to do the host, and entertain
+      you, if you&rsquo;ll come.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are going to stay at the inn?&rdquo; said Edith. &ldquo;You always stayed with <i>us</i>
+      before!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Of course I did; but I am not going to be so inconsiderate as to plant
+      myself upon you <i>now</i>.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He laid the slightest possible stress upon the &ldquo;now,&rdquo; and Edith
+      understood; nevertheless, she deemed it prudent to affect ignorance and
+      read a different meaning in his words. She murmured something about being
+      very much occupied, and having little time to attend to visitors; then led
+      the way across the hall to their sitting-room, and brought him into the
+      presence of his aunt.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Mrs. Russell welcomed him cordially, but when she heard of his domestic
+      arrangements, her face went very blank indeed. She used every argument in
+      her power to persuade the young man to change his mind, and to have his
+      luggage brought up to the cottage. Walter, eager to accept her kindness,
+      was listening for one word from Edith. It never came, and he expressed his
+      intention to remain at the inn.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But, although he abided by his former decision and remained <i>en garçon</i>
+      at the inn, a very great part of his time was spent at the cottage. The
+      old lady, anxious to atone for the inhospitable behaviour of her niece,
+      altered all her household arrangements to suit the erratic habits of the
+      young painter. The heavy midday meal was replaced by a light luncheon;
+      while for the light supper at six was substituted a substantial dinner, to
+      which Walter was always bidden. On the afternoon of that day, when the
+      young man had first made his appearance at the cottage, a rather
+      unpleasant interview had taken place between the aunt and niece, almost
+      the first which had come to ruffle the peaceful course of their evenly
+      flowing lines. The old lady had been indignant at the coolness of Edith&rsquo;s
+      reception, and had accused the girl of inhospitality and ingratitude;
+      while Edith had coolly given it as her opinion that the young man was much
+      better located elsewhere.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is a tax to have a visitor always in the house, aunt,&rdquo; said Edith,
+      quietly; &ldquo;and&mdash;and I haven&rsquo;t the strength to bear it, I think.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Mrs. Russell looked up, and was surprised to find that the girl, after
+      bearing her reproaches so mildly, was now actually crying. She noted
+      again, too, with a start of shocked surprise how sadly she had changed.
+      The fresh, bright beauty which had once charmed every eye had gone,
+      leaving scarcely a trace behind it, and the face was pale, careworn, and
+      sad. She got up and kissed her, and that silent caress did more than a
+      dozen reproaches. It made Edith hurriedly leave the room, to cast herself,
+      crying bitterly, upon the bed, while Mrs. Russell sat down and wrote a
+      note to Walter.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You shall have your own way about staying at the inn,&rdquo; she wrote, &ldquo;and
+      you shall also have every possible hour of the day that you can make use
+      of for your work; but surely you can spare your evenings for us. I have
+      arranged to dine every day at six, and I beg of you, for Edith&rsquo;s sake, to
+      make one of the party. Dear Edith is far from well, and sadly changing.
+      She sees so few people, and the house is dull. Dear Walter, come often,
+      for her sake if not for mine.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Thus it happened that every night, when the little dining-room was laid
+      out for dinner, Walter made his appearance at the cottage door, and that
+      during those evening hours the family party was increased to three.
+      Sometimes they left the dinner-table to lounge in the pretty little
+      drawing-room, where Walter was permitted to smoke his cigar, while the old
+      lady worked at wool-work, and Edith played to them in the slowly gathering
+      darkness. Sometimes they strolled out on to the lawn, and had the tea
+      brought out, and laughed and chatted while they watched the stars appear
+      one by one in the heavens. Was it fancy, or since these social evenings
+      commenced was Edith really changed&rsquo; for the better? Walter fancied that
+      her eye was brighter, her cheek less pale, and that her manner towards
+      himself was sometimes very tender, as if she wished in a measure to atone
+      for her past coldness. This was particularly noticeable one night when the
+      two sat alone in the drawing-room.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Mrs. Russell, murmuring something about household affairs, had left them
+      together. Walter was reclining in an armchair, smoking his cigar and
+      watching his cousin, who was busily engaged embroidering crosses upon a
+      handsome altar-cloth, intended for the decoration of the church.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;These have been pleasant evenings,&rdquo; he said&mdash;&ldquo;pleasant for me, that
+      is. I shall be sorry enough when they come to an end.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Edith looked up and smiled sadly.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;If we always had pleasure it would become a pain,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Though we
+      rebel against pain and suffering, it is, after all, a very great boon to
+      the world.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Humph! Perhaps so, if it were better distributed. What about the poor
+      creatures whose portion is only pain?&mdash;who, to put it vulgarly, get
+      all the kicks, and none of the halfpence?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;In this world, you should have said, Walter. Let us hope their measure of
+      happiness will be greater in the world that is to come.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Walter was silent. The conversation had taken precisely the turn which he
+      would have avoided, and he was wondering how to bring it to the subject
+      which was for ever uppermost in his mind. For a time he remained in a
+      brown study. Edith stitched on. Then he rose, took a few turns about the
+      room, and stopped near to her chair.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Edith,&rdquo; he said quietly, &ldquo;do you know why I came down here?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Something in his tone rather than his words made her start and flush
+      painfully. She did not raise her eyes or cease her work. Before she could
+      answer, he had taken her hand.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I came for <i>you</i>, Edith,&rdquo; he continued passionately. &ldquo;Listen to me,
+      my darling. Do not answer hastily, if you cannot give me a decided answer.
+      At least let me hope.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Decidedly yet tremblingly the girl put his hands from her, and half rose
+      from her seat. His words had frozen her to ice again.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why <i>did</i> you come here?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Do you call it manly or kind to
+      persecute me? I tell you I shall never marry.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      As she spoke her eye fell upon the altar-cloth, which she held in her
+      hand: Walter saw the look, and as he was walking back to the inn that
+      night it recurred to his mind again. The altar-cloth! There was the symbol
+      of the thing which had come between them&mdash;which was blighting his
+      life and hers. Edith was changing; but she was not utterly changed. He
+      resolved to do the only thing which now remained to be done. He determined
+      to appeal to her spiritual adviser.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      All night his mind was filled with this idea; it troubled his sleeping as
+      well as his waking moments, and when he rose in the morning it was the one
+      thing which possessed him. Now, he had never seen the clergyman, but he
+      had pictured him as a middle-aged, benevolent-looking man, perhaps with
+      spectacles; a gentle fanatic in religion, willing, through the very
+      bigotry of his nature, to sacrifice everything for the good of the Church,
+      but still, perhaps, amiable. He might be open to reason, and an appeal
+      made directly to him might be the means of putting an end to all the
+      trouble.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Breakfast over, the young man issued from the inn, and strolled
+      deliberately through the village in the direction of the Vicarage. It was
+      early in the day to make a call, so he walked very slowly, meditating as
+      he went on the nature of his errand; and the course he was about to take,
+      after what had passed between him and his cousin, was, perhaps, a little
+      unwarrantable, and Edith might be inclined to resent it if she knew. But
+      then, he reflected, she need never know. Mr. Santley would surely grant
+      him the favour of keeping the matter a secret; and afterwards, when the
+      shadow of the Church had ceased to darken her life, and she was happy with
+      him in her married home, she would be glad to hear that it was he who had
+      saved her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      These were the kind of rose-coloured visions which filled his brain as he
+      walked on towards the Vicarage, and by the time he had reached the hall
+      door and pulled the bell, he had even converted Mr. Santley into the good
+      fairy of the tale, or rather a sort of Father Christmas, in a surplice,
+      smiling benevolently upon them and pairing their hands. A trim little
+      servant came to the door, and, in answer to his inquiries, informed him
+      that Mr. Santley was not at home. He was expected in immediately, however,
+      if the gentleman would like to wait.. Yes; Walter would wait. So he
+      followed the little maid across the hall, into a somewhat chilly but
+      sufficiently gorgeous room, which was reserved solely for the comfort and
+      convenience of Mr. Santley&rsquo;s guests. As Walter sank down into an
+      easy-chair, the arms of which seemed to enfold him in a close embrace, and
+      looked about the room, he acknowledged that Mr. Santley at least did not
+      give all his substance to the poor. Here at least there was no appearance
+      of penury, or of sackcloth and ashes; all was comfortable and luxurious in
+      the extreme. He walked about the room; examined the books upon the tables,
+      which were all works of education, elegantly bound; noticed the engravings
+      on the walls&mdash;one or two of Raphael&rsquo;s Madonnas (coloured copies), and
+      an old engraving after Andrea del Sarto. Mr. Santley did not come. He rang
+      the bell, gave the little maid his card, told her he would call again, and
+      left the Vicarage.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This time he walked in the direction of the schoolhouse. He had his
+      sketchbook under his arm, and in it a half-finished sketch of the
+      schoolmistress&rsquo;s picturesque home. He would fill up his spare time by
+      adding a few touches to the sketch before he returned to the Vicarage.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In this matter fortune favoured him. It being Saturday afternoon, there
+      was no school, and the schoolmistress was leaning in a listless attitude
+      upon the low trellised gate. She welcomed the young painter with a nod and
+      a bright smile, and readily assented to his proposition that she should
+      stand for the figure in the picture. He took out his book and set to work.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Dora meanwhile chatted and laughed to make the time pass pleasantly, and
+      sometimes, in answer to an invitation from him, she would run round the
+      easel to take a peep at the figure of herself, which was gradually growing
+      under his hand. At last their pleasant interview was brought to an end.
+      Walter remembered the appointment which this chattering lady had made him
+      forget. He put up his sketching materials, and prepared to take his leave.
+      Then Dora stopped him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Surely, Mr. Hetherington, you will do me one favour,&rdquo; she said: &ldquo;you will
+      honour me by stepping for a moment into the cottage which you have
+      transferred so beautifully to paper. I have some cream and milk, some
+      fresh strawberries from our garden, if that is any inducement to you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The invitation was tempting. Nevertheless, Walter, while wishing to
+      accept, was about to refuse, pleading an engagement at the Vicarage when
+      another voice broke in&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Good day, Miss Greatheart!&rdquo; it said.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The schoolmistress smiled, made a prim curtsey, and answered, &ldquo;Good day,
+      sir!&rdquo; Then she waited to see if her visitor had anything more to say.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The new arrival was a man, and Walter, who was looking at him, thought he
+      was the handsomest man he had ever seen in his life. He was dressed as a
+      clergyman, but the cut of his garments-was elegant and eminently becoming.
+      As his eye fell upon Walter he raised his hat, and discovered a head
+      beautifully shaped and slightly thinning at the temples. Walter remained
+      fascinated, staring at the man, who moved here and there with easy grace,
+      and whose face grew singularly handsome with every varying expression
+      which flitted across it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He had not much to say to the schoolmistress; and as he moved away his hat
+      was again swept off to Walter, and the clergyman&rsquo;s eyes rested upon him
+      for a moment with a look one might love to paint in the eyes of a saint.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Walter turned to Miss Greatheart.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;A handsome fellow,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;&mdash;a very handsome fellow; and a
+      clergyman, I see, by his dress. Who is he? One of Mr. Santley&rsquo;s curates, I
+      suppose?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The schoolmistress stared at him for a moment in amazement.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;One of Mr. Santley&rsquo;s curates!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Why, my dear sir, that is our
+      vicar himself!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      CHAPTER XX. IN THE GLOAMING.
+    </h2>
+    <p class="pfirst">
+      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> t was now Walters
+      turn to look amazed.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That Mr. Santley!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Why, he is quite a young man!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Of course he is&mdash;and handsome as good, and good as handsome. But
+      won&rsquo;t you come in, Mr. Hetherington, and have some refreshment? It is two
+      hours quite since you opened out your sketch-book at the gate!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      This time Walter accepted her invitation, and followed her into the quaint
+      little parlour, where most of her days were spent. The little maid who
+      attended to the house had got a holiday with the children, and Dora was
+      left to attend to herself that day. Walter was glad of it, since he was
+      left free to sit by the window and follow the train of his thoughts, while
+      Dora busied herself spreading the snowy cloth upon the table, and setting
+      forth her simple fare. When it was ready, he came to the table and ate
+      some strawberries and drank some milk, thinking all the while of Mr.
+      Santley. Presently he spoke of him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You have known Mr. Santley some time, Miss Greatheart?&rdquo; he said.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I was schoolmistress here when he came.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;He is a very good man, you said?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, indeed. But it stands to reason that a man with Mr. Santley&rsquo;s gifts
+      must be very good indeed not to get spoiled. In justice to at least half
+      of his congregation, he ought to marry.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why, pray?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why? If he had arrived here with a wife, many a young girl in the village
+      would have been saved a severe heartache. He is a prize in the matrimonial
+      lottery well worth striving for. He is idolized by every female in the
+      village. Now, it is certain he cannot marry them all, and on the day when
+      the happy one is chosen, fancy the hearts that will break!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yours amongst the number?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, sir; I am happy to say I am free. But I take no credit to myself on
+      that account. If I had been idle like some of the young ladies here, there
+      might have been another victim added to the list; but I have so much to do
+      in the school, I have no time to think about the vicar,&rdquo; she added. &ldquo;Have
+      you heard him preach, Mr. Hetherington?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, not yet.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Ah, you must go to the church tomorrow. He speaks magnificently, and
+      looks a picture in his robes; besides, his sister, Miss Santley, told me
+      he will wear for the first time to-morrow a new surplice and a magnificent
+      embroidered band, which has been worked for him by Miss Dove!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      At the mention of his cousin&rsquo;s name Walter felt his face flush and his
+      heart leap; but he made no direct reply. He went on eating his
+      strawberries, and turned his face to the open window, as he said&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What have you made for him, Miss Greatheart?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I? Oh, nothing! He has so many beautiful presents from the young ladies
+      in the village that he has no need of them from me, even if I had the time
+      to make them, which I have not; all day I am teaching in the school, and
+      all the evening I am busy preparing lessons for the following day.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Have you always lived here?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Not always. My mother was a prison matron at Preston, and we lived
+      together until she died, several years ago; then, through the influence of
+      some friends, I got this place, and have lived here ever since!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Working and striving,&rdquo; added Walter; &ldquo;finding pleasure in things which to
+      some would mean only trouble and irritation. During the holidays do you
+      ever come to London, Miss Greatheart?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No; I generally remain here.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;From choice?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Not at all. I should like a change; but then, to go alone to a city where
+      you have no friends, and to parade crowded streets alone, is a holiday
+      which I should not enjoy.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Walter rose to go.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You will come back and finish the sketch on Monday, perhaps?&rdquo; said Dora.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I shall be glad to; I should like, above all, to finish the figure
+      leaning on the gate.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then you must come in the evening. I promise to give you an hour after
+      school hours.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Then Walter shook hands with her and left, taking the way to the inn
+      instead of to the Vicarage. He would make no appeal to the clergyman. The
+      sight of Mr. Santley, so different to the benevolent, elderly gentleman of
+      his imagination, had decided him on that point; it had also brought with
+      it other trouble, for it threw an entirely new light on Edith&rsquo;s religious
+      fervour.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Was it, then, the man or the church, infatuation or fanaticism? He asked
+      himself the question for the first time. Was Edith among the mass of
+      simple girls who were breaking their hearts for his sake? Probably. It
+      remained now for him to watch her, and ascertain the truth.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He went up to the cottage that evening, and regarded Edith with quite a
+      new light in his eyes. She also seemed changed. Her manner was restless
+      and ill at ease; her cheek was flushed. All through the dinner she
+      scarcely touched any food, but glanced furtively at her aunt and cousin.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When the dinner was over, they all retired to the drawing-room as usual.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Here Ediths restlessness asserted itself more strongly. Instead of sitting
+      quietly to her work, as was her usual custom, she flitted restlessly about
+      the room. Presently she declared that she had a terrible headache, and
+      wished her cousin &ldquo;good night.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I have been trying to bear it,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;but it gets worse instead of
+      better. You will excuse me for to-night, Walter, will you not?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      As he took her hand and held it for a moment in his, he felt that it was
+      trembling and very hot. He scarcely believed in the headache, but he
+      deemed silence the most prudent course; so he wished her &ldquo;good night&rdquo;
+       without more ado.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Her aunt rose to go with her to her room, but permission to do so was
+      firmly refused.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      So she went. Mrs. Russell sat down again to her wool-work, and Walter
+      subsided into his chair.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      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.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      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&mdash;if, indeed, it
+      was the man, and not religion, which held the girl so entranced&mdash;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.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      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&mdash;the
+      close neighbourhood of two figures in earnest conversation&mdash;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.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Yes, the voice was Ediths.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Having wished her aunt and cousin &ldquo;good night,&rdquo; 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.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The letter was as follows:&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;My dear Miss Dove,
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am very sorry to hear that you have been suffering. You will find what
+      you require at Dr. Spruce&rsquo;s surgery. You are right about the time&mdash;nine
+      o&rsquo;clock will do very well.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yours faithfully,
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Charles Santley.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      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 &ldquo;good
+      night.&rdquo; 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&mdash;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.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      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.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      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&mdash;which
+      she knew, by old experience, well.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      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.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      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.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      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.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      A week&rsquo;s reflection, and the frequent sight of Edith&rsquo;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 <i>should</i> 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.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      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.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Is it you, Edith? Quick! Is it you?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      His quick ear had caught the rustle of her dress on the grass. Even as the
+      words left his lips came the eager answer.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, Charles; I have come!&rdquo; And the girl, forgetting all their quarrels,
+      leapt with a glad cry into his arms.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      For a time no words were spoken. After that one cry of joy, Edith had laid
+      her head upon his shoulder and sobbed as if her heart would break. At this
+      manifestation of hysteria, Santley was not altogether pleased; but he
+      could say nothing, so he clasped his arms firmly about her, and tried to
+      soothe her sorrow. When at last Edith lifted her head from his shoulder he
+      kissed her lips, and whispered to her so gently that the girl&rsquo;s heart beat
+      as gladly as it had done the first day that words like these had been
+      spoken.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;There, there,&rdquo; said the good man, kissing her again, and patting her head
+      like that of a spoilt child. &ldquo;You are better now, my darling; and remember
+      you must not quarrel with me again. You were breaking your little heart
+      for nothing at all.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Part of the girls emotion had communicated itself to him; and for the time
+      being, while he stood there holding her to him, feeling her breath upon
+      her cheek, her clinging arms about his neck, he felt almost as
+      passionately disposed as he had done the first day that he told her of his
+      love. As for Edith, a serene happiness and peace seemed to enter into her
+      soul. They stood thus for some time, exchanging whispered words and fond
+      embraces; then the clergyman told her she had better go. A spot or two of
+      rain had fallen, and the sky was clouding over as if for a storm.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Will you play the organ to-morrow, Edith?&rdquo; he asked, as they moved away
+      together.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, if you wish it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I do wish it, Edith; for when you are playing, it seems as if you were
+      helping me with my work.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Sweet words! She said nothing, but the hand which lay in his pressed his
+      fondly, and he knew that she was pleased.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And will you come to the Vicarage to-morrow afternoon, and have tea with
+      us? I shall be so glad if you will!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He did not add that his sister, wondering all the week at Edith&rsquo;s
+      non-appearance, had threatened repeatedly to call at the cottage, when she
+      would doubtless have elicited something of the truth.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, I cannot come!&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;my cousin, Walter Hetherington, is staying
+      in the village, and so long as he remains here he is to spend the evenings
+      with us. As to-morrow is Sunday, and no work can be done, my aunt has
+      invited him up for the day.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Santley was relieved, very much relieved indeed. He could now give his
+      sister a tangible reason for Edith&rsquo;s absence from the Vicarage, while he
+      himself would be perfectly free to spend the afternoon with Mrs. Haldane.
+      He tried, to suppress the delight which he could not help feeling, and
+      said quietly, &ldquo;Let us hope the young man will make a speedy departure, if
+      he means to monopolize you so much. But that reminds me, Edith, a young
+      man, a Mr. Walter Hetherington, called upon me to-day and left his card. I
+      suppose it is the same?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Of course it is,&rdquo; returned Edith. &ldquo;But what could he want with <i>you?</i>&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t in the least know. Nothing of very great importance, I suppose,
+      since he promised to call again, and never reappeared.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The clergyman paused.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      They had come now to within a short distance of Edith&rsquo;s home. Again, after
+      a furtive look round, he clasped her fondly to him, pressed her lips, and
+      murmured, &ldquo;Good night, my Edith!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Good night,&rdquo; returned the girl, withdrawing herself reluctantly from his
+      embrace. &ldquo;Oh, I am so happy now! You were quite right, dear; another week
+      like the last would have broken my heart!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Thus they parted&mdash;Edith, happy as a child, creeping quickly to the
+      cottage; the good man smiling celestially, and well pleased to have made
+      everything comfortable at little personal inconvenience, walking back to
+      his holy hearth, and thinking of his Sunday sermon.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      CHAPTER XXI. IN THE VICARAGE PARLOUR.
+    </h2>
+    <p class="pfirst">
+      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>early 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s home.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      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.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      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&mdash;yet his eyes had assured him of the blackness
+      and impurity of her soul. Disappointment was turning his heart to gall.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At last the service was ended: the congregation streamed forth, Walter
+      amongst the rest. The crush was so great he could hardly get along&mdash;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.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I saw you in church,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and thought you looked dreadfully pale.
+      Are you not well, Walter?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      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&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I did not see <i>you</i> in church.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, you would not. I was in the organ-room. It is my Sunday for playing,
+      you remember!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      To this he made no reply. He was wondering how it was that Edith could
+      manage so effectually to play such a double part. He expected at least a
+      downcast eye, and a blush of guilt upon her cheek; with this he might have
+      been tolerably satisfied. But Edith&rsquo;s face looked brighter than it had
+      done for many a day.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I forgot to ask you,&rdquo; he said suddenly, &ldquo;if your headache was better.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;My headache?&rdquo; she replied. She had been so engrossed with happy thoughts
+      at the reconciliation, that the question took her completely by surprise.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Ah yes,&rdquo; she added, suddenly recollecting herself; &ldquo;it is so much better,
+      that I had quite forgotten it. You see what a good night&rsquo;s rest will do!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Walter uttered an impatient sigh, and turned on his heel; while Edith
+      added&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are coming up to dine with us to-day, you know. Shall we walk
+      together?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am not coming!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Not coming? I thought&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, I did accept your aunt&rsquo;s invitation; but I feel upset to-day, and am
+      not fit company for anyone. Will you make my excuses at home?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, certainly I will; and I hope that to-morrow you will be so much
+      better. Good-bye.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She shook hands with him, and tripped away.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      For a time Walter made no attempt to move, but gazed after her with eyes
+      full of sadness and despair. Although he said to himself that henceforth
+      Edith must be nothing to him, he felt pained at the curtness with which
+      she could dismiss him. He had noticed that she had never once attempted to
+      persuade him to alter his decision; indeed, she had not been able to hide
+      from him her delight at hearing it, and he felt very bitter.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He turned from the church, walked away, and, after strolling about for
+      some time he knew not whither, he raised his head and found himself quite
+      close to the schoolmistress&rsquo;s cottage. Dora stood in the doorway,
+      surrounded by her flowers.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      She came forward when she saw him, and, after giving him a bright smile
+      and a warm handshake, stood by the gate and continued to talk. She was a
+      wise little woman, and knew exactly what to say and what to leave unsaid;
+      she had been a witness of the interview between the cousins in the
+      churchyard that morning, and her woman&rsquo;s instinct had divined something of
+      the true state of things. So she chatted pleasantly to the young man, and
+      took no notice whatever of his pale cheek and peculiarity of manner; and
+      when he said suddenly, &ldquo;Are you not going to ask me in to-day, Miss
+      Greatheart?&rdquo; she threw open the gate at once, and said that she was sadly
+      neglectful and inhospitable, and that if Mr. Hetherington would like to
+      come in, he would be more than welcome. So he followed her again into the
+      quaint little parlour, and again took his seat by the open window, to gaze
+      with strange, meditative eyes upon the little garden where the sun was
+      shining. It was a ragged little garden enough, and by no means well cared
+      for, since Dora was not rich enough to pay for labour, like her more
+      fortunate neighbours in the village.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      During her leisure hours she worked among the flower-beds until her plump
+      hands ached again; but, after all, her leisure hours were very few, and
+      the grass and weeds grew so quickly. Walter saw that the grass was many
+      inches too long, and that it was scattered thickly with withered
+      rose-leaves; that here and there a rose tree was sadly in want of the
+      pruning knife. But that did not make the scent of the flowers any the less
+      delicious; nor did it take from the quiet beauty of their place. There was
+      plenty of light and colour everywhere, and there was beauty.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      While looking at the garden, Walter began to think of the gardens mistress&mdash;quiet
+      little Dora, living so contented among her children; and in the winter
+      still living here alone, when the flowers had faded, when withered
+      rose-leaves were scattered profusely on the grass, and the leafless
+      branches of the trees bent before the biting breath of the bitter winter
+      wind. It was a pretty picture of Dora&mdash;he loved it as we love the
+      creatures of our imagination; it seemed to make Dora belong to him,
+      artistically, as it were, and bring him consolation. Then his reflections
+      took another turn, and he began, for the first time, to think it strange
+      that the little woman should be so much alone.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He said something of this to Dora; and she laughed and blushed, and
+      answered frankly enough.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, I am a good deal alone. You see, I am in an equivocal position. I am
+      too good for the servants, and not good enough for their mistresses. I am
+      only the governess!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;At any rate,&rdquo; said Walter, &ldquo;you have contrived to brighten up what would
+      otherwise have been a very cheerless visit. As a token of my gratitude,
+      will you accept a little present from me?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I want no present, sir; your friendly words are quite enough.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Nonsense! I should like to give you some of the sketches I have made of
+      the village.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;To me! give them to me?&rdquo; said Dora, with wide-open eyes. &ldquo;Why, Mr.
+      Hetherington, I thought you wanted them to&mdash;to&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;To&mdash;what?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Well, to remind you of this visit!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Perhaps when I began them I had some notion of that kind in my head; we
+      are all fools sometimes, you know. But I have changed my mind; I don&rsquo;t
+      want to be reminded of this visit. Yes, I shall give you the sketches&mdash;that
+      is to say, if you will accept them; and when I have taken my departure&mdash;and
+      I shall do so soon&mdash;I shall try to forget that such a village as
+      Omberley ever existed at all.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And the people,&rdquo; said Dora; &ldquo;of course you will try to forget the
+      people?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That is the first thing I shall try to do!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      We are most of us selfish in our grief, and Walter was no exception to the
+      rule. Mortified and suffering himself, it never once entered his head that
+      he might be unpolite, and even rude, to another. But the knife entered
+      Dora&rsquo;s little heart, and made her wince. She had been happy in the
+      knowledge that she had met a fellow-creature who could treat her exactly
+      as an equal&mdash;a man whom she could call a friend; and lo! when her
+      interest is strongest, when she has been telling herself that the memory
+      of the few days which he has brightened for ever will linger in her memory
+      and never die, he came to tell her that his first effort would be to
+      forget the place&mdash;and <i>her</i>.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I will take the pictures, if you like, Mr. Hetherington, but merely as a
+      loan. You will change your mind again.. I am convinced that some day you
+      will ask me for them back again, and when you do they shall certainly be
+      yours. But the sketch of the cottage&mdash;is it finished already?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;The sketch of the cottage? Oh, I should like to keep <i>that</i>. It
+      contains the picture of a lady whom I should certainly not like to
+      forget.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Then, while the glad light danced in Dora&rsquo;s eyes again, he rose and took
+      her hand, as he said&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Good-bye, Miss Greatheart. When I said I should forget the village and
+      the people I was wrong. Your kindness and hospitality I shall always
+      remember.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      So he crossed the threshold of the happy little schoolhouse, to stroll out
+      again into the sunshine; and again he thought very bitterly of the woman
+      who had effectually taken all the sunshine from his life.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He need not have thought so bitterly of her. If she had wounded him she
+      was receiving her punishment.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Having left Walter in the churchyard, Edith flew home like one walking on
+      air. She had accepted his decision gleefully, never attempting to alter it
+      by word or look, for she was thinking all the time of the invitation she
+      had received from Mr. Santley, and which had cost her such a pang to
+      refuse. Walter&rsquo;s sudden determination left her free&mdash;free to spend a
+      few hours in the company of the man who was more to her than the whole
+      world. Lighthearted and happy, she hurried home, gave Walter&rsquo;s message to
+      her aunt, and then sat down and made a very hearty meal. After it was
+      over, and a reasonable time had elapsed, she again put on her hat, and
+      told her aunt she was going down to the Vicarage.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I shan&rsquo;t be back till late, aunt,&rdquo; she added, &ldquo;for, as I have to go to
+      the Vicarage, I may as well walk to evening service with Miss Santley. If
+      Walter changes his mind and comes, you will look after him well, won&rsquo;t
+      you?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      And Mrs. Russell, promising implicit obedience, kissed her niece fondly,
+      and watched her go down the road. On reaching the Vicarage, Edith was
+      admitted at once. There was no necessity to take her card and keep her
+      waiting while she ascertained if master or mistress was at home. She was
+      known to the servants as a visitor who was always welcome&mdash;at any
+      rate to the mistress of the house. So, without any preamble at all, she
+      was shown into the sitting-room, and into the presence of Miss Santley.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The room was as luxuriously furnished as any in the Vicarage, and
+      charmingly decorated with the choicest of hothouse flowers. The lady sat
+      in a low wicker chair, with a book in her hand, and at her elbow a little
+      gipsy table, holding a tea-service of Dresden china. The opening of the
+      door disturbed the lady. She let her book fall upon her knee, and looked
+      up dreamily; but the moment her eye fell upon Edith she rose, smiling
+      brightly, gave the girl both her hands, and kissed her fondly.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;My dear Edith, I am so glad!&rdquo; she exclaimed; and there was a ring of
+      genuine welcome in her voice. &ldquo;Why, you are a perfect stranger.&mdash;Jane,
+      bring a cup for Miss Dove.&mdash;Now, dear, select your chair, take off
+      your hat, and make yourself comfortable.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Edith did as she was bidden. She placed her hat on one of the many little
+      tables with which the room abounded, stood before one of the glasses for a
+      moment to rectify any disarrangement of hair and costume; then she drew
+      forth a little wicker chair similar to that occupied by her hostess, and
+      sat down. By this time the teapot was brought in, and the tea poured, so
+      Edith sat and sipped it, talking and laughing meanwhile like a happy
+      child.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Well, dear,&rdquo; said Miss Santley, &ldquo;and what have you been doing with
+      yourself all the week? Charles tells me you have a cousin in the village,
+      who completely monopolizes you. By the way, he told me that he had tried
+      to persuade you to come to tea to-day, but that you had positively
+      refused. That could not have been true.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, it was true,&rdquo; returned Edith. &ldquo;I did refuse when he asked me,
+      because I thought I could not come. I thought my cousin would dine with us
+      as usual; but I met him at church this morning, and he said he was rather
+      unwell and could not come. So I thought it would not matter if I came
+      after all.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Matter! My dear, I am delighted.&rdquo; And so, having thus satisfactorily
+      arranged matters, the two sat chatting to their hearts&rsquo; content.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It was very pleasant, exceedingly pleasant&mdash;at any other time Edith
+      would have enjoyed it hugely; but as the hands of the bronze clock on the
+      chimneypiece travelled so quickly round, she began to grow uneasy, and to
+      wonder at the protracted absence of her lover. Miss Santley was a very
+      pleasant person indeed, and Edith was very fond of her; but it had been a
+      stronger inducement than Miss Santley that had brought her to the Vicarage
+      that afternoon. Santley must know she was in the house, thought Edith; it
+      was strange he did not come.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Suddenly Miss Santley glanced at the clock. In a moment she was on her
+      feet.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;My dear,&rdquo; she exclaimed, &ldquo;how the time has flown! Do you play again
+      to-night?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The lady nodded.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Well walk to church together, dear,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Amuse yourself by looking
+      at the books, while I run away to get my bonnet and mantle on.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Ere the lady had reached the door of the room, Edith spoke. Prolonged
+      disappointment had given her courage.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Mr. Santley is busy, I suppose?&rdquo; she said.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Mr. Santley&mdash;Charles? Oh, my dear, he&rsquo;s not at home!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Not at home?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;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
+      &lsquo;How do you do&rsquo;? If he had known you had been coming, of course he would
+      have stayed in; but he didn&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Miss Santley was near the door. The moment she had finished speaking she
+      passed out of the room, and left Edith alone.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      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&rsquo;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.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      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.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Ready, dear?&rdquo; she asked brightly; then she paused, amazed.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      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.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why, my dear!&rdquo; exclaimed Miss Santley. &ldquo;Whatever is the matter? Has
+      anything happened?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, nothing,&rdquo; said Edith, faintly. &ldquo;I have got a very bad headache, that
+      is all; and&mdash;and&mdash;I cannot go to church again to-day, Miss
+      Santley.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Go to church,&rdquo; echoed Miss Santley. &ldquo;Why, my dearest girl, of course you
+      cant go to church! I will send Jane with a message to Charles, and stay
+      and take care of you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      But this Edith would not allow. She pulled the handkerchief from her
+      forehead, and declared her intention of going home.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Miss Santley kissed her kindly. At this exhibition of tenderness Edith
+      fairly broke down. She threw her arms around the lady&rsquo;s neck, and burst
+      into tears.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I&mdash;I am so sorry,&rdquo; she said at last, when her sobs had somewhat
+      subsided; &ldquo;but I could not help it. I&mdash;I am such a coward when I am
+      ill!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Miss Santley said nothing; she knew she could do nothing. There was some
+      mystery here which she could not fathom, so she yielded to the girl&rsquo;s
+      solicitations and allowed her to go home.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      CHAPTER XXII. AT THE VICARAGE.
+    </h2>
+    <p class="pfirst">
+      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>ne evening about
+      the middle of the week, as the Rev. Mr. Santley sat alone in his study a
+      card was brought to him, on which was printed&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Mr. Walter Hetherington.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The clergyman raised his brows as he read, and asked the maid, who waited
+      respectfully at the door, if the gentleman had not called upon him before.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Once before, sir!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Did he state his business?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;He did not, sir; he only said he would not detain you long.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Well, ask the gentleman to be good enough to walk this way.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The maid retired, and a moment afterwards Walter entered the room.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The two men bowed to each other. One glance had assured Santley that any
+      attempt at a warmer greeting would be injudicious; the other might not
+      respond, and it would never do for the vicar of the parish to be snubbed
+      by an itinerant painter whom nobody knew&mdash;besides, under the
+      circumstances, a bow was ample greeting. He infused into it as much
+      politeness as possible, welcomed his young friend to the Vicarage, and,
+      pointing to a chair which he had drawn forward, begged him to be seated.
+      Decidedly the clergyman was the most self-possessed of the two. For Walter
+      took his seat in nervous silence; while Santley, wondering greatly in his
+      own mind what could possibly have procured him the honour of that visit,
+      kept the scene from flagging by that wonderful gift of small talk with
+      which he was possessed.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He was very pleased indeed to meet Mr. Hetherington. He had done him the
+      honour to call upon him once before he thought&mdash;yes, he was sure of
+      it; and he had also had the pleasure of meeting him once before, when he
+      had not had the honour of his acquaintance. Was Mr. Hetherington thinking
+      of making a long stay amongst them?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Not very long,&rdquo; said Walter.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I suppose you have made some charming sketches?&rdquo; continued the clergyman.
+      &ldquo;There are pretty little spots about the village, spots well worthy of a
+      painters brush. I used to do a little in that way myself when I was a
+      youngster at college; but the vicar of a parish has onerous duties. I
+      suppose at the present moment I should hardly know how to handle a brush.
+      Are you thinking of leaving us soon, Mr. Hetherington?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am not quite sure!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Ah! well, if you stay and would like to make use of my library, I should
+      feel greatly honoured. It is the only thing I have to offer you, I fear;
+      but I shall be very pleased indeed to put it at your service. It contains
+      a few books on your own art, which might interest you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are very kind, Mr. Santley.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Not at all, my dear sir; I am merely neighbourly. Life would be dreary
+      indeed if one could not be neighbourly in a place like this!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Mr. Santley, I have come to you for your advice.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The clergyman, nervously dreading what was to follow, looked at his
+      visitor with a calm smile, and answered pleasantly enough.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;My advice? My dear sir, I place it freely at your service, and myself
+      also if I can be of the slightest use to you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You can be of very great use to me.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The clergyman merely bowed this time and waited, so Walter continued&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You know my cousin, Miss Edith Dove?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      As he spoke he fixed his eyes keenly upon the clergyman&rsquo;s face, but the
+      latter made no sign; he neither winced nor changed colour, but answered
+      calmly enough.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I have the pleasure of the lady&rsquo;s acquaintance. She is one of the most
+      esteemed members of my congregation.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is about Miss Dove I wished to speak to you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Again the clergyman bowed; again he found it unnecessary to make a reply.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Walter, growing somewhat ill at ease, continued&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t mind confessing to you, Mr. Santley, that at one period of my
+      career I hoped most earnestly, and indeed confidently believed, that at no
+      very remote date I should have the happiness of making her my wife. I was
+      sincerely attached to her; I believe she was attached to me. But recently
+      all has changed. She is wasting her life; throwing aside all chance of
+      happiness, through some mad infatuation about the Church.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Some mad infatuation about the Church!&rdquo; returned the clergyman,
+      methodically. &ldquo;Really, my dear sir, I am afraid you forget you are
+      speaking to a clergyman of the Church. As to Miss Dove, she is a lady
+      whose conduct is without reproach; she is one of the Church&rsquo;s staunchest
+      supporters!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then you approve her present mode of life; you uphold it? You will not
+      advise her to shake her morbid fancies away? to accept an honest affection
+      and a happy home?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Santley seemed to reflect.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;As a clergyman of the Church, I should advise her the other way, I think.
+      Surely the fulfilment of religious duties points to a more elevated mode
+      of existence than mere marrying and giving in marriage. I am sorry for
+      you, since I believe that any man possessed of that lady&rsquo;s esteem might
+      deem himself fortunate; still, I could not advise her to act against her
+      conscience and the promptings of religion.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And me, what do you advise me to do?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The clergyman shrugged his shoulders. &ldquo;It seems to me that there is only
+      one thing that you can do. If the lady finds your attentions disagreeable,
+      surely the most honourable course for you to adopt would be to leave her&mdash;in
+      peace.&rdquo; Walter rose, and the clergyman breathed more freely, believing
+      that the interview had come to a satisfactory end. Neither of them spoke
+      for a minute or so, till the clergyman looked up, and said quietly&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You have something more to say, Mr. Hetherington?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; 9 answered Walter; &ldquo;I have something more to say.&rdquo; Then, going a
+      few steps nearer to the clergyman, he added, &ldquo;You are a hypocrite, Mr.
+      Santley!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The clergyman&rsquo;s face grew pale. He rose hastily from his seat; but before
+      he could speak Walter continued, vehemently&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Do you think I don&rsquo;t know you? Do you think I haven&rsquo;t discovered that it
+      is you, and not the Church, who has taken my cousin from me? You talk to
+      me of religion, of religious duties, and yet you know that you are playing
+      the hypocrite to her, as you have done to me, and that you are breaking
+      her heart.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He paused, flushed, excited, and angry. The clergyman stood calm and very
+      pale.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You do well to seek this interview in my house, sir,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Now you
+      have insulted me with impunity, perhaps you will take your leave.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      But Walter made no attempt to move.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Before I go,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I wish to know what are your plans regarding my
+      cousin?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And I should like to ask you, sir,&rdquo; returned the clergyman, &ldquo;what
+      authority you have for interfering in my private affairs?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I have no authority; your private affairs are nothing to me. I speak in
+      the interest of my cousin!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Really! I should fancy your interference would be hardly likely to do her
+      much good.&rdquo; #
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Mr. Santley, I shall ask you one more question. Do you, or do you not,
+      mean to marry my cousin?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And if I refuse to answer?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I shall make it my duty, before tomorrow night, to expose you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Really!&rdquo; returned the clergyman, with an exasperating smile. &ldquo;You will
+      draw your cousin&rsquo;s good name through the mire in order to throw a little
+      mud at me. I should think, young man, you must be a treasure to your
+      family. Good evening. I will ring for the servant to show you out.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      And he did ring&mdash;at the most opportune moment too; for Walter,
+      staggered by that last thrust, perceived that his enemy was on the side of
+      power. So, when in answer to her master&rsquo;s summons the servant appeared,
+      Walter followed her; he was afraid to utter another word, for Edith&rsquo;s
+      sake.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When he was gone, all Santley&rsquo;s calmness deserted him, and he walked up
+      and down the room in a fit of uncontrollable rage. When he had grown
+      calmer, he sat down and wrote one of his neatly worded epistles to Edith,
+      making an appointment for the following day.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He half believed that Walter had come to him, as Edith&rsquo;s authorized
+      messenger, to attempt to force upon him those bonds which he was so very
+      reluctant to wear. The clergyman could not in any other way account for
+      his knowledge of the relations existing between the two. It was well for
+      Edith that at that moment she was not near her lover&mdash;well for her,
+      also, that no meeting could take place between them until the following
+      day.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The next day Santley was very much more composed, and when he walked
+      towards the trysting-place none would have known, from his outward
+      appearance, that anything was materially wrong. He had made the
+      appointment in daylight this time; since embraces could be dispensed with,
+      so also could darkness and night. There was really nothing in this meeting
+      after all; nothing but what might have been witnessed by a dozen pair of
+      eyes. Those who did see it would see only an event of ordinary everyday
+      life.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Miss Edith Dove, walking leisurely towards the village, was overtaken by
+      the clergyman, who paused to shake hands with her, and to walk with her a
+      part of the way. Had any one looked closely at these two, he would have
+      seen that the clergyman, though calm, was very pale; that Edith, pale too,
+      had a weary, listless look about her face; that after she had shaken hands
+      with her pastor, she quickly turned away her head, for her eyes grew dim
+      with tears.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      If Santley saw the tears he did not care to notice them. He had found,
+      directly they met, that she was suffering from one of those deplorable
+      fits of temper which had more than once caused trouble between them; but
+      that could not be taken any notice of now. If she chose to wear herself to
+      a shadow, it was her own affair; he had something more important on hand.
+      The interview could not be a long one, therefore he must reach the heart
+      of the matter at once.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      So he began abruptly&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Edith, this new course you have adopted is a dangerous one, and had
+      better be abandoned without loss of time.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The girl raised her eyes to his face, and asked wearily&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What do you mean? What have I done?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I suppose you are responsible for your cousin&rsquo;s visit to my house; you
+      must have instigated it, if you did not actually advise him!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Again she raised her troubled eyes to his face, and said sadly&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know what you mean.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then I will tell you, Edith. Your cousin, a hot-headed, ill-mannered
+      youth, has thought fit to take upon himself the part of protector, or
+      guardian, of your happiness. In this capacity he paid me a domiciliary
+      visit yesterday, and treated me to some most violent abuse. He threatened
+      to make known to the public the relations between us. I advised him to
+      think it over, for your sake!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;My cousin&mdash;Walter Hetherington, do you mean?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Most certainly.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But how does he know? how has he learned?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;From you, I suppose.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No; it is not from me,&rdquo; returned Edith, whose listlessness was fast
+      disappearing. &ldquo;I have said nothing; I have never even mentioned your name
+      to him. It must be known; it must be talked of in the village. Oh,
+      Charles, spare me! Keep your promise to me, for God&rsquo;s sake! Any open
+      disgrace would be more than I could bear. I should die.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The girl, overcome by her emotion, had forgotten for the moment that their
+      present interview was a perfectly public one. The clergyman coldly
+      reminded her of the fact. Then, after she had forced upon herself a
+      composure which she was far from feeling, he continued&mdash;&ldquo;You had
+      better understand, Edith, once and for ever, that whatever my conduct may
+      be, I do not choose to have it questioned by this exceedingly officious
+      young man. A repetition of the scene of yesterday I will not bear. And as
+      it is evident to me that my actions are under surveillance, I must refuse
+      either to see or hear from you again, until that young man has removed
+      himself from the village.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Charles, you surely don&rsquo;t mean that?&rdquo; exclaimed the girl.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But he certainly did mean it, and though she pleaded and argued, he
+      remained firm. At last she resolved that she would speak to Walter, resent
+      his interference, and, if possible, induce him to return home.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Then the two shook hands and parted.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      That evening Walter dined at the-cottage. During the dinner Edith scarcely
+      looked at him; while he himself was silent and distrait. But after dinner,
+      when they had all retired to the drawing-room, when the old lady had
+      settled down to her wool-work, and Walter had lit his cigar, Edith threw a
+      light shawl over her head, and asked him if he would come with her into
+      the garden.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Wondering very much at the request, Walter rose at once, and offered her
+      his arm. She took it; but the moment they were alone she withdrew her hand
+      and turned angrily upon him. Walter listened, and he found that he had
+      some chance of being heard. He acknowledged that she had spoken the truth;
+      he <i>had</i> interfered; he had deemed it quite right that he should do
+      so for her sake.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;For my sake!&rdquo; returned Edith. &ldquo;It seems to me there is more of
+      selfishness than benevolence in what you have done. What is it to you if I
+      am engaged to Mr. Santley? and if we choose to keep our engagement a
+      secret, what is that to you? I am my own mistress; I can act just as I
+      think fit, without the fear of coercion from any one. <i>You</i>, at any
+      rate, have no right to regulate my actions or to dictate them. I suppose
+      you think I have no right to marry any one, simply because I refuse to be
+      coerced into marrying you!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      It was a cruel thing to say; but Edith was simply dealing him, secondhand,
+      some of the stabs which she herself had received from her beloved pastor
+      in the morning. The stabs went deep into his heart, and the wounds
+      remained for many a day. When Edith had uttered a few more truisms with
+      the characteristic selfishness of love and hatred, Walter coldly suggested
+      that their pleasant stroll in the garden might be brought to a
+      termination.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      They returned together to the house. As the old lady, beaming with delight
+      at what she believed to be the sudden and happy reconciliation of the
+      cousins, had prepared the tea, Walter pleased her by sitting down to take
+      some before he said good night.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But the next day he returned to town.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      CHAPTER XXIII. DR. DUPRÉ&rsquo;S ELIXIR.
+    </h2>
+    <p class="pfirst">
+      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">G</span>eorge Haldane
+      returned home in the best of spirits. His paper had been received with
+      enthusiasm by the <i>savants</i> of France, and his life in Paris had been
+      one pleasant succession of visits, learned conversaziones, and private
+      entertainments. Thanks to his happy pre-occupation, he scarcely noticed
+      that his wife&rsquo;s manner was constrained, nervous, yet deeply solicitous;
+      that she looked pale and worn, as if with constant watching; and that, in
+      answer to his careless questioning as to affairs at home, she made only
+      fragmentary replies.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      On entering his dressing-room to change his apparel, he found Baptisto,
+      who was quietly undoing his portmanteau and selecting the necessary things
+      with a calm air, as if his services had never been interrupted.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;So, my Baptisto,&rdquo; he said, clapping that worthy on the shoulder, &ldquo;you are
+      not dead or buried, I see? Ah, you may smile, but I am quite aware of the
+      trick you played me. Well, you have been the loser. You would have had a
+      pleasant time of it in Paris, the best of entertainment, and nothing
+      whatever to do.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am glad you have returned, senor,&rdquo; replied Baptisto, with his customary
+      solemnity.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I hope you have given satisfaction to your mistress during my absence?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I hope so, senor.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Humph! we shall see what report she has to make concerning you, and if
+      that is favourable, I may forgive your freak of laziness.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I have not been lazy, senor,&rdquo; said Baptisto, quietly preparing the
+      toilette.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Indeed! Pray, how have you been employing yourself?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Baptisto did not reply, but smiled again.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;How is your inamerata and her family? I saw the little woman curtsying as
+      I passed through the lodge-gates.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Baptisto shook his head solemnly.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Ah, senor,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you are mistaken. The woman of the lodge is a
+      stupid person; and for the rest, I put no faith in women. <i>Cuerpo di
+      Baccho</i>, no! They smile upon us when we are near; but no sooner do we
+      turn our backs, than they smile upon some other man.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Pretty philosophy,&rdquo; returned Haldane, with a laugh. &ldquo;Why, you are a
+      downright misogynist, my Baptisto. But I don&rsquo;t believe one word you say,
+      for all that. Men who talk like you are generally very easy conquests, and
+      I would bet twenty to one on the little widow still.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Ah, senor, if all women were like your signora, it would be different.
+      She is so good, so pure, so faithful at her devotions. It is a great thing
+      to have religion.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      As Baptisto spoke his back was turned to his master, so that the
+      extraordinary expression of his face was unnoticed, and there was no
+      indication in his tone that he spoke satirically. Haldane shrugged his
+      shoulders and said nothing, not caring to discuss his wife&rsquo;s virtues with
+      a servant, however familiar. Presently he went downstairs to dinner. All
+      that evening he was very affectionate and merry, talking volubly of his
+      adventures in Paris, of his scientific acquaintances, and of such new
+      discoveries as they had brought under his notice. In the course of his
+      happy chat he spoke frequently of a new acquaintance, one Dr. Dupré, whom
+      he had met in the French capital. &ldquo;The French, however far behind the
+      Germans in speculative affairs,&rdquo; he observed, &ldquo;are far their superiors,
+      and ours, in physiology. Take this Dupré, for example. He is a wonderful
+      fellow! His dissections and vivisections&rsquo; have brought him to such a point
+      of mastery that he is almost certain that he has discovered the problem
+      poor Lewes broke his heart over&mdash;how and by what mechanism we can&rsquo;t
+      think. I don&rsquo;t quite believe he has succeeded in that great discovery, but
+      some of his minor discoveries are extraordinary. Did you read the account
+      in the papers of his elixir of death?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Ellen shook her head. The very name seemed horrible.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;His elixir of death?&rdquo; she repeated.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes. A chemical preparation, the fundamental principle of which is
+      morphine. By its agency he can so produce in a living organism the
+      ordinary phenomena of death, that even <i>rigor mortis</i> is simulated. I
+      saw the experiment tried on two rabbits, a Newfoundland dog, and, to crown
+      all, on the human subject. They were all, to every appearance, dead; the
+      rabbits for twenty-four hours, the dog for half a day, and the woman for
+      an hour and a half.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Horrible!&rdquo; exclaimed Ellen, with a shudder. &ldquo;Do you actually mean he
+      experimented on a living woman?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes; on a strapping wench, the daughter of his housekeeper; and a very
+      fine thing she made of it. We subscribed together, and presented her with
+      a purse of a thousand francs.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I think such things are wicked,&rdquo; cried Ellen, with some warmth. &ldquo;Mere
+      mortals have no right to play, in that way, with the mystery of life and
+      death.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;My dear Nell,&rdquo; cried Haldane, laughing, &ldquo;it is in the interests of
+      science!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But I am sure it is not right. Life is given and taken by God alone.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Your argument, if accepted, would make all mankind accept the religion of
+      the Peculiar People, who will cure no diseases by human intervention. As
+      to this business of suspended animation, it is merely a part of our
+      discoveries in anodynes. Dupré&rsquo;s experiment, I know, is perfectly safe.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But that is not the question.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;How so, my dear?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What I mean is, that death is too solemn and awful a thing to imitate as
+      you describe. Such experiments are simply blasphemous, in my opinion.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Come, come,&rdquo; cried the philosopher. &ldquo;There is no blasphemy where there is
+      no irreverence. According to your religious people, your priests of the
+      churches, there was blasphemy in circumnavigating the globe; in
+      discovering the circulation of the blood; in ascertaining the age of the
+      earth; and, still later, in using chloroform to lessen the pangs of
+      parturition.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But what purpose can be served by such experiments as <i>that?</i>&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;A good many,&rdquo; was the reply. &ldquo;For example, it may help us to the
+      discovery of the nature of life itself, which has puzzled everybody, from
+      Parmenides down to Haeckel. If we can by a simple anodyne suspend the
+      vital mechanism for a period, and then by a vegetable antidote restore it
+      again to action, the resurrection of Lazarus will cease to be a miracle,
+      and the pretensions of Christianity&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Ellen rose impatiently, with an expression of sincere pain.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;My dear Nell, what is the matter?&rdquo; cried her husband.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I cannot bear to hear you discuss such a thing. Oh, George, if you would
+      leave such wicked speculations alone, and try to believe in the mystery
+      and sovereignty of God!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You mean, burn my books, and go to hear your seraphic friend every
+      Sunday?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Had he not touched, unconsciously, on another painful chord? Why,
+      otherwise, did his wife flush scarlet and partially avert her face?
+      Conquering herself with an effort, she went over to him, and bending over
+      him, looked fondly into his face.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are so much cleverer than I, so much wiser, and do you think I am not
+      proud of your wisdom? But, all the same, dear, I wish you did not think as
+      you do. When life becomes a mere experiment, a mere thing of mechanism,
+      what will be left? If we knew everything, even what we are, and why we
+      exist, the world would be a tomb&mdash;with no place in it for the Living
+      God.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Touched by her manner, Haldane drew her down by his side and kissed her;
+      then, with more earnestness than he had yet exhibited, he answered her,
+      holding her hand in his own and pressing it softly.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;My dear Nell, do me the justice to believe that I am not quite a
+      materialist; simple agnosticism is the very converse of materialism. There
+      is not living a scientific philosopher of any eminence who does not, in
+      his calculations, postulate a mystery which can never be solved by the
+      finest intellect. Even if we had fully completed, with the poet&mdash;=
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The new creed of science, which showeth to man
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      How he darkly began,
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      How he grew from a cell to a soul, without plan;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      How he breaks like a wave of the ocean, and goes
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      To eternal repose&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      A tone that must fade, tho&rsquo; the great Music grows! &lsquo;=
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      even then, we should know nothing of the First Cause. That must for ever
+      remain inscrutable.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But how horrible it would be to believe in annihilation? <i>Can</i> you
+      believe in it?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Certainly not,&rdquo; replied the philosopher.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Ellens face brightened.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, I am so glad to hear you say that!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;My dear Nell, annihilation is absurd.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Now, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo; she cried triumphantly.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is refuted, on the face of it, by the doctrine of the conservation of
+      force. Life is eternal, in one shape or another; no force can be
+      destroyed, be sure of that!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I wish Mr. Santley could hear you! He wouldn&rsquo;t call you an atheist then!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Haldane&rsquo;s face darkened angrily.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What? Does the man actually&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t misunderstand,&rdquo; cried Ellen, flushing scarlet. &ldquo;I do not mean that
+      he really calls you an atheist, but he is so sorry, so deeply sorry, that
+      you do not believe. He does not know you, dear, and takes all my bear&rsquo;s
+      satirical growling for solemn earnest. Now, when I tell him&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You will tell him nothing,&rdquo; exclaimed Haldane, with sudden sternness. &ldquo;I
+      will have no priest coming between my wife and me!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Mr. Santley would never do that,&rdquo; she returned, now trembling violently.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Mr. Santley is like all his tribe, I suppose&mdash;a meddler and a
+      mischief-maker. That is the worst of other-worldliness; it gives these
+      traders in the Godhead, these peddlers who would give us in exchange for
+      belief in their superstitions a <i>bonus</i> in paradise, an excuse for
+      making this world unbearable. Well, my atheism, if you choose to call it
+      so, against his theism. Mine at least keeps me a man among men, while his
+      keeps him a twaddler among women.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Haldane spoke with heat, for the word &ldquo;atheist&rdquo; had somehow stung him to
+      the quick. This man, who rejected all outward forms of belief, and whose
+      conversation was habitually ironical, was in his inmost nature deeply and
+      sincerely religious; humbly reverent before the forces of nature;
+      spiritually conscious of that Power beyond ourselves which makes for
+      righteousness. True, he rejected the ordinary forms of theism; but he had,
+      on the other hand, a deep though dumb reverence for the character of
+      Christ, and he had no sympathy with such out-and-out materialists as
+      Haeckel and <i>hoc genus omne</i>. For the rest, he was liberal-minded,
+      and had no desire to interfere with his wife&rsquo;s convictions; could smile a
+      little at her simplicity, and would see no harm in her clerical
+      predispositions, so long as the clergyman didn&rsquo;t encroach too far on the
+      domain of married life and domestic privacy.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      His indignation did not last. Seeing his wife greatly agitated, and
+      fearing that he had caused her pain, he drew her forehead down and kissed
+      it; then, patting her cheek, he said&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Forgive me, Nell. I did not mean to scold; but one does not like hard
+      names. When any one calls me &lsquo;atheist,&rsquo; I am like the old woman whom
+      Cobbett called a &lsquo;parallelogram;&rsquo; it is not the significance of the
+      epithet, but its opprobrium, that rouses me. Besides, I do not like any
+      man to abuse me&mdash;to my own wife.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No one does that,&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;You know I would not listen.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I hope not, my dear.&rdquo; He added after a little, looking at her
+      thoughtfully and sadly, &ldquo;Man and wife have fallen asunder before now, on
+      this very question of religion. Well, rather than that should happen, I
+      will let you convert me. Will that satisfy you?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I shall never be quite satisfied till I know that you believe as I do.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What is that, pray?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That there is a just God, who made and cherishes us; and that, through
+      the blood of His Son we shall live again although we die!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Well, it is a beautiful creed, my dear.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And true?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why not? I will go with you thus far. I believe that, if there is a God,
+      He is just, and that we shall certainly live again, if it is for our
+      good.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The emphasis with which he spoke the last words attracted her attention.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;For our good?&rdquo; she queried.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am quoting the saddest words ever written, by the saddest and best man
+      I ever knew. * He, too, believed that a God might spare us, and give us
+      eternal life, if&mdash;mark the proviso&mdash;eternal life were indeed <i>for
+      our good.</i> But suppose the contrary&mdash;suppose God knew better, and
+      that it would be an evil and unhappy gift? Alas! who knows?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     *  J. S. Mill.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      He rose from his chair, still encircling his wife&rsquo;s waist, and moved
+      towards the door.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Come to the drawing-room,&rdquo; he cried gaily. &ldquo;After so much offhand
+      theology, a little music will be delightful. Ah, Nell, one breath of
+      Beethoven is worth all the prosings of your parsons. Play to me, and,
+      while the music lasts, I will believe what you will.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      CHAPTER XXIV. THE EXPERIMENT.
+    </h2>
+    <p class="pfirst">
+      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he next morning
+      Haldane was busy in his laboratory. When he came in to lunch, looking
+      disreputable enough in his old coat, and smelling strongly of tobacco, he
+      said to his wife&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;By-the-by, Nell, do you remember what I told you last night about Dupré&rsquo;s
+      wonderful elixir? I forgot to tell you that I have brought some of it with
+      me, for purposes of private experiment.&rdquo; Ellen looked horrified.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be afraid,&rdquo; he continued, laughing; &ldquo;your cats and dogs are safe
+      from me. I have found a better subject, and mean to operate on him this
+      very afternoon.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Whom do you mean?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;As a sort of penance for his shamming illness, I shall kill Baptisto.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She uttered a cry, and raised her hands in protest.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;For heavens sake, George, be warned! If you have any of that horrible
+      stuff, throw it away.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Now, my dear Nell,&rdquo; said the philosopher, &ldquo;be reasonable; there is not
+      the slightest cause for alarm. You will see this experiment, and it will,
+      I hope, treble your faith in miracles.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I will <i>not</i> see it. I beseech you, abandon the idea. As for
+      Baptisto&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      At this moment the Spaniard entered the room, carrying certain dishes.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I have been telling your mistress, Baptisto, that you are ready to be a
+      martyr to science. At four o&rsquo;clock precisely, you will be a dead man.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Baptisto bowed solemnly.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am quite ready, senor.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      But here Ellen interposed.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is ridiculous; your master is only joking. He would not do anything so
+      foolish, so wicked. As for you, I forbid you to encourage him.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Baptisto bowed again, with a curious smile.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is for the senor to command. As he knows, he has saved my life, and he
+      may take it whenever he pleases.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Haldane nodded, in the act of drinking a glass of wine.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be afraid, Baptisto. After death, there is the resurrection.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That, senor, is your affair,&rdquo; returned the Spaniard, phlegmatically,
+      shrugging his shoulders. &ldquo;You will do with me as you please.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      And so saying, he glided from the room.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Ellen again and again entreated her husband not to proceed in his
+      experiment; but he had long made up his mind that it was perfectly safe,
+      and he could not be persuaded. To her gentle: spirit, the whole idea
+      seemed horrible in the extreme; but her greatest dread was that it might
+      be attended with danger to the subject. Haldane, however, assured her that
+      this was impossible.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      All the afternoon Haldane and Baptisto were together in the laboratory. A
+      little after four o&rsquo;clock, as Ellen was walking on the terrace, Haldane
+      came to her, smiling and holding up a small vial.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is all over,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and the experiment is quite successful. Come
+      and see.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Not quite understanding him, she suffered him to lead her into the
+      laboratory; but, on crossing the threshold, she uttered a cry of horror.
+      Stretched on a sofa, lay Baptisto, moveless, and, to all seeming, without
+      one breath of life. His eyes were wide open, but rayless; his jaw fixed,
+      his face pale as grey marble; a peaceful smile, as of death itself, upon
+      his handsome face. The light of the sun, just sinking towards the west,
+      streamed in through the high window upon the apparently lifeless form. In
+      the chamber itself there was a sickly smell, like that of some suffocating
+      vapour. The whole scene would have startled and appalled even a strong
+      man.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, George!&rdquo; cried the lady, clasping her hands. &ldquo;What have you done?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be alarmed,&rdquo; was the reply, &ldquo;Its all right!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But you said the experiment&mdash;&mdash;-
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Was successful? Perfectly. There lies our poor friend, comfortably
+      finished.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But are you sure, quite sure, that he is not dead? He is not breathing.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Of course not. The simulation is perfect. Place your hand on his wrist&mdash;you
+      will detect no pulse. Turn his pupils to the light&mdash;you see, they do
+      not contract. The case would deceive a whole college of physicians.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      As he spoke, he suited the action to the word&mdash;placed his finger upon
+      the pulse, gazed at the glazing pupils; raised one of the lifeless arms,
+      which, on being released, fell heavily as lead.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Horrible, horrible! For God&rsquo;s sake, recover him!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;All in good time. He has only been dead a quarter of an hour; in half an
+      hour precisely I shall say, &lsquo;Arise and walk.&rsquo; Feel his forehead, Nell; it
+      is as cold as marble.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      But Ellen drew back, shuddering, and could not be persuaded to touch the
+      sleeper.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Well, go back to your promenade. I will call you when he is awakened.&rdquo;
+       Sick and terrified, Ellen obeyed her husband. Standing on the terrace, she
+      waited for his summons; and at last it came. Haldane appeared, and
+      beckoned; she followed him to the laboratory, and there, seated in an
+      armchair, comfortably sipping a glass of wine, was the Spaniard&mdash;a
+      little pale still, but otherwise not the worse for his state of coma.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Thank God!&rdquo; cried Ellen.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I thought he would never recover. But it must have been a horrible
+      experience.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Baptisto smiled.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Tell the signora all about it,&rdquo; said his master. &ldquo;Did you feel any pain?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;None, senor.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What were your sensations? Pleasant or otherwise?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Quite pleasant, senor. It was like sinking into an agreeable sleep. If
+      death is like that, it is a bagatelle.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Were you at all conscious?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Not of this world, senor, but I had bright dreams of another. I thought I
+      was in paradise, walking in the sunshine&mdash;ah, so bright! I was sorry,
+      senor, when I came back to this world.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You hear!&rdquo; cried Haldane, turning to his wife. &ldquo;After all, death itself
+      may be a glorious experience; for &lsquo;in that sleep of death what dreams may
+      come!&rsquo; It is quite clear at least that all the phenomena of death, such as
+      we shrink from and shudder at, may be accompanied by some kind of pleasant
+      psychic consciousness. Bravo, Baptisto! After this, we shall call you
+      Lazarus the second. You have passed beyond the shadow of the sepulchre,
+      and returned to tell the tale.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Despite the resuscitation, Ellen still revolted from the whole proceeding.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Now you are satisfied,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;promise me never to use that dreadful
+      elixir again.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I think you may make your mind easy. The experiment is an ugly one, I
+      admit, and I am not anxious to repeat it&mdash;at least, not on the human
+      organism. For the same reason, my dear Nell, pray keep the affair to
+      yourself, and make no confidences, even to your confessor&mdash;I should
+      say, your clergyman, Will you promise?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Most certainly. I should not like any one to know you did such things. As
+      for Mr. Santley, he would be shocked beyond measure.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      So saying, she left the two men together. In the mean time, Baptisto
+      had-finished his wine and risen to his feet. While his master regarded him
+      with an approving smile, he walked over to the door, softly closed it, and
+      returning noiselessly across the room, said in a low voice&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;There is something, senor, I did not tell you. I had dreams.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;So you said, my Baptisto.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Ah yes, but not all. While I was lying there, I thought that <i>you</i>
+      were the dead man, and that the senora, your widow, had married.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Married?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;The English priest.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Haldane started, and looked in amazement at the speaker.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What the devil do you mean?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Ah, senor, it was only my dream; a foolish dream. You were lying in your
+      winding-sheet, and they were kneeling at the altar&mdash;smiling, senor. I
+      did not like to speak of it to the senora; but it was very strange.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Haldane forced a laugh, while, with a mysterious look, Baptisto crept from
+      the chamber. Was it in sheer simplicity or in deep cunning that the
+      Spaniard had spoken, touching so delicate a chord? Left alone, Haldane
+      paced up and down the laboratory in agitation. He was not by temperament a
+      jealous or a suspicious man, but he was troubled in spite of himself. The
+      words sounded like a warning, almost an insinuation.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What could the fellow mean?&rdquo; he asked himself again and again. &ldquo;Could he
+      possibly have dreamed <i>that?</i> No; it is preposterous. There was
+      malice in his eye, and mischief.... Ellen married to Santley! Bah! what am
+      I thinking about? The fellow is not a <i>prophet!</i>&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      In this manner, whether in innocence or for some set purpose of his own,
+      Baptisto contrived to poison all the sweetness of that successful
+      experiment. When Haldane again joined his wife that evening, he was
+      taciturn, distraught, nervous, and irritable. All his buoyancy had
+      departed. Ellen saw the change, and puzzled herself to account for it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      She played to him, sang to him, but failed to drive the cloud from his
+      brow.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When she had retired for the night, he still sat pondering over Baptisto&rsquo;s
+      words.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      CHAPTER XXV. &ldquo;BEWARE, MY LORD, OF JEALOUSY!&rdquo;
+     </h2>
+    <p class="pfirst">
+      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>f Baptisto&rsquo;s
+      object in describing a dream so ominous was to attract his master&rsquo;s
+      attention to the intimate relations between Mrs. Haldane and the
+      clergyman, he certainly succeeded. Once assured in this direction,
+      Haldane&rsquo;s perceptions were keen enough. He noticed that the mere mention
+      of Santley&rsquo;s name filled Ellen with a sort of nervous constraint; that,
+      although the clergyman&rsquo;s visits were frequent, they were generally made at
+      times when Haldane himself was busy and preoccupied&mdash;that is to say,
+      during his well-known hours of work; and that, moreover, Santley, however
+      much he liked the society of the lady, invariably avoided the husband, or,
+      if they met, contrived to frame some excuse for speedy parting. Now,
+      Haldane trusted his wife implicitly, and believed her incapable of any
+      infidelity, even in thought. Still, he did not quite like the aspect of
+      affairs. Much as he trusted his wife, he had a strong moral distrust for
+      anything in the shape of a priest; and he determined, therefore, to keep
+      his eyes upon the clergyman.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      A few days after that curious physiological experiment, he had the
+      following conversation with Baptisto. It was the first day of the week.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Baptisto, I thought you were a good Catholic?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;So I am, senor,&rdquo; returned the Spaniard, smiling.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yet you went to an English church-yesterday, I hear?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, senor. I go there very often.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why, pray?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Simply out of curiosity. Mr. Santley is a beautiful preacher, and has a
+      silvery voice. While you were away, I went once, twice, three times. There
+      is a young senora there who plays sweetly upon the great organ; I like to
+      listen, to-watch the congregation.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Humph! By-the-bye, Baptisto, I have been thinking over the dream of
+      yours, when&mdash;when you were lying there.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, senor?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Pray, what put such a foolish idea in your head?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I cannot tell, senor; all I know is, it came. A foolish dream, do you
+      say? I suppose it is because the clergyman was here so often, when you
+      were away. And madame is so devout! I trust, senor, my dream has not given
+      you offence; perhaps I was wrong to speak of it at all.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Haldanes face had gone black as a thunder-cloud. Placing his hand on the
+      other&rsquo;s shoulder, and looking firmly into his face, he said&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Listen to me, Baptisto.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am listening, senor.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;If I thought you would come back to life to tell lies about your
+      mistress, I would have let you lie the other day and rot like a dead dog,
+      rather than have recovered you at all. You hear? Take care! I know you do
+      not love your mistress, but if you dare to whisper one word against her, I
+      will drive you for ever from my door.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Baptisto bowed his head respectfully before the storm, but retained his
+      usual composure.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Senor, may I speak?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes; but again, take care!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You should not blame me if I am jealous for your honour!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Haldane started, and uttered an expletive.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;My honour, you dog? What do you mean?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;This, senor. I would rather die than give you offence; and as for the
+      senora, I love her also, for is she not your wife? But will you be angry
+      still, when I tell you, when I warn you, to beware of that man, that
+      priest? He is a bad man, very bad. Ah, I have watched&mdash;and seen!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What have you seen?&rdquo; cried Haldane, clutching him by the arm. &ldquo;Come, out
+      with it!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Enough to show me that he is not your friend&mdash;that he is dangerous.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Bah! is that all? Now, listen to me, and be sure I mean what I say. I
+      will have no servant of mine spying upon my wife. I will have no servant
+      of mine insinuating that my honour is in danger. If I hear another word of
+      this, if you convey to me by one look the fact that you are still prying,
+      spying, and suspecting, I shall take you by the collar and send you flying
+      out of my house. Now, go!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Baptisto, who knew his master&rsquo;s temper perfectly, bowed and withdrew. He
+      had no wish to say one word more. He had thrown out a dark hint, a black
+      seed of suspicion, and he knew that he might safely let it work. It did
+      work, rapidly and terribly. Left alone, Haldane became a prey to the
+      wildest fears and suspicions. He remembered now that his wife had been
+      acquainted with this man in her girlhood; that there had even been some
+      passage of love between them. He remembered how eagerly she had renewed
+      the acquaintance, and with what admiring zeal the clergyman had responded.
+      He pictured to himself the sympathetic companionship, the zealous
+      meetings, the daily religious intercourse, of these two young people, each
+      full of the fervour of a blind superstition. Could it be possible that
+      they loved each other? Questioning his memory, he recalled looks, words,
+      tones, which, although scarcely noticed at the time, seemed now of painful
+      significance. The mere thought was sickening. Already he realized the
+      terrible phrase-of the poet Young&mdash;&ldquo;the jealous are the damned.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Haldane was not habitually a violent man. Though passionate and headstrong
+      by temperament, he had schooled himself to gentleness after a stormy
+      youth, and the chilly waters of philosophy, at which he drank daily, kept
+      his head cool and his pulses calm. But the stormy spirit, though hushed,
+      was not altogether dead within him, and under his habitual reticence and
+      good-humoured cynicism, there lay the most passionate idolatry for his
+      beautiful wife. He had set her up in his heart of hearts, with a faith too
+      perfect for much expression; and it had not occurred to him, in his
+      remotest dreams, that any other man could ever come between them.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And now, suddenly as a lightning flash illumining a dark landscape, the
+      fear came upon him that perhaps he had been unwary and unwise. Was it
+      possible, he asked himself, that he had&rsquo; been too studious and too
+      book-loving, too reticent also in all those little attentions which by
+      women, who always love sweetmeats, are so tenderly prized? Moreover, he
+      was ten years his wife&rsquo;s, elder&mdash;was that disparity of years also a
+      barrier between their souls? No; he was sure it was not. He was sure that
+      she was not hypocritical, and that she loved him. Wherever the blame might
+      be, if blame there were, it was certainly not hers. She had been in all
+      respects, a tender and a sympathetic wife; encouraging his deep study of
+      science, even when she most distrusted its results; proud of his
+      attainments, and eager for his success; in short, a perfect helpmate, but
+      for her old-fashioned prejudices in the sphere of religion. Ah, <i>religion!</i>
+      There was the one word which solved the enigma, and aroused in our
+      philosopher&rsquo;s bosom that fierce indignation which long ago led Lucretius
+      into such passionate hate against the Phantom,=
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Which with horrid head
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Leered hideously from all the gates of heaven!&rdquo;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It needed only this to complete his loathing for the popular theology, for
+      all its teachers. Yes, he reflected, religion only was to blame. In its
+      name, his wife&rsquo;s sympathies had been tampered with, her spirit more or
+      less turned against himself; in its name, his house had been secretly
+      invaded, his domestic happiness poisoned, his peace of mind destroyed. It
+      was the old story! Wherever this shadow of superstition crawled, craft and
+      dissimulation began. Now, as in the beginning, it came between father and
+      child, sister and brother, man and wife.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It so happened that when George Haldane came forth from having his dark
+      hour alone, he rather avoided meeting his wife at once, and, taking his
+      hat, stepped out from the laboratory on to the shrubbery path. He had
+      scarcely done so, when his eye fell upon two figures standing together in
+      the distance, upon the terrace of the house. One was Mrs. Haldane, wearing
+      her garden hat and a loose shawl thrown over her shoulders. The other was
+      the clergyman of the parish.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Haldane drew back, and watched. In that moment he knew the extent of his
+      humiliation; for never before had he been a spy upon his wife&rsquo;s actions.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Their backs were towards him. Santley was talking eagerly; Ellen was
+      looking down. Presently they began to move slowly along the terrace, side
+      by side.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Haldane watched them gloomily. The sunlight fell brightly upon them, and
+      on the old Manor house, with its brilliant creepers and glittering panes,
+      while the old chapel, with the watcher in its ruined porch, remained in
+      shadow. It seemed like an omen. In the darkness of his hiding-place,
+      Haldane felt satanic. Yes, there they walked&mdash;children of God, as
+      they called themselves&mdash;in God&rsquo;s sunlight; and he, the searcher for
+      light, the unbeliever, was forgotten.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Presently Santley paused again, and, with an impassioned gesture, pointed
+      upward. Ellen raised her head, and looked upward too, listening eagerly to
+      his words. Haldane laughed fiercely to himself, with all the ugliness of
+      his jealousy upon him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Presently they disappeared into the house. A little afterwards Santley
+      emerged from the front door, and came walking rapidly down the avenue. His
+      manner was eager and happy, almost jubilant, and Haldane saw, when he
+      approached, that his face looked positively radiant.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He was passing, when Haldane stepped out and confronted him. He started,
+      paused, and a shadow fell instantaneously upon his handsome face.
+      Recovering himself, he held out his hand. Haldane did not seem to see the
+      gesture, but, nodding a careless greeting, said, with his habitual <i>sang
+      froid</i>&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Well met, Mr. Santley. Here I am again, you see, hard at work. Have you
+      come from the house?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; answered Santley.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;On some new message of Christian charity and beneficence, I suppose? Ah,
+      my dear sir, you are indefatigable. And the old women of the parish must
+      indeed find you a Good Shepherd. Did you find my wife at home?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And zealous, as usual, I suppose?&rsquo; Ah, what a thing it is to be pious!
+      But let me beg you not to encourage her too much. Charity begins at home;
+      and what with soup-kitchens, offertories, subscriptions for church
+      repairs, and societies for the gratuitous distribution of flannel
+      waistcoats, I am in a fair way of being ruined.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Santley forced a laugh.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be afraid. My errand to-day was not a begging one, I assure you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am glad to hear it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I was merely bringing Mrs. Haldane a book I promised to lend her. To tell
+      the truth, she finds your library rather destitute of works of a religious
+      nature.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Do you really think so?&rdquo; exclaimed Haldane, drily. &ldquo;Why, I thought it
+      unusually well provided in that respect. Let me see! There are Volney&rsquo;s
+      &lsquo;Ruins of Empire,&rsquo; Monboddo&rsquo;s &lsquo;Dissertations,&rsquo; Drummond&rsquo;s &lsquo;Academical
+      Questions,&rsquo; excellent translations of Schopenhauer and Hartmann, not to
+      speak of thirty-six volumes of Diderot, and fifty of Arouet.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Santley opened his eyes in horror and astonishment.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Arouet!&rdquo; he ejaculated. &ldquo;Do you actually mean to call Voltaire a
+      religious writer?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Highly so. There is religion even in &lsquo;La Pucelle,&rsquo; but it reaches its
+      culmination in the &lsquo;Philosophical Dictionary.&rsquo;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And you would actually let Mrs. Haldane read such works as those?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Certainly; though, am sorry to say, she prefers &lsquo;The Old Helmet&rsquo; and the
+      &lsquo;Heir of Redclyffe.&rsquo; May I ask the name of the work you have been good
+      enough to lend her?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is a book from which I myself have received great benefit&mdash;Père
+      Hyacinthes &lsquo;Sermons.&rsquo;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Père Hyacinthe?&rdquo; repeated Haldane. &ldquo;Ah! the jolly priest who reverenced
+      celibacy, and proclaimed himself the father of a strapping boy. Well, the
+      man was at least honest. I think all clergymen should marry, and at as
+      early an age as possible. What is your opinion?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Santley flushed to the temples, while Haldane watched him with a gloomy
+      smile.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I think&mdash;I am sure,&rdquo; he stammered, &ldquo;that the married state is the
+      happiest&mdash;perhaps the holiest.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;With these sentiments, of which I cordially approve, why the deuce are
+      you a bachelor?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The clergyman winced at the question, and his colour deepened; then, as if
+      musing, he glanced round towards the house&mdash;a look which was observed
+      and fully appreciated by his tormentor.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am sure my wife would encourage you to change your condition. Like most
+      women, she is by instinct a matchmaker.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Santley did not seem to hear; at any rate, he made no reply, but, holding
+      out his hand quickly, exclaimed&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I must go now. I am rather in haste.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Haldane did not take the hand, but put his arm upon the clergyman&rsquo;s
+      shoulder.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Well, good day,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Take my advice, though, and get a sensible
+      wife as soon as possible.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Santley tried to smile, but only succeeded in looking more pale and
+      nervous than usual. With a few murmured words of adieu, he moved rapidly
+      away.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Haldane watched him thoughtfully until he disappeared down the avenue.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I wonder if that man can smile?&rdquo; he said to himself. &ldquo;No; I am afraid he
+      is too horribly in earnest. I suppose, the women would call him handsome&mdash;<i>spiritual</i>;
+      but I hate such pallid, waxen-featured, handsome dolls. A pretty shepherd,
+      that, for a Christian flock to follow; a fellow who makes his very
+      ignorance of this world constitute his claim to act as cicerone to the
+      next. Fancy being jealous, actually <i>jealous</i>, of such a thing as
+      that!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He turned back into his laboratory and tried to dismiss Baptisto&rsquo;s
+      suggestion from his mind; but it was impossible. He could not disguise
+      from himself that Santley, with his seraphic face and sad, earnest eyes,
+      was the kind of creature whom the weaker sex adore, and that he was
+      rendered doubly dangerous to women by the radiant mesmerism of a
+      fascinating and voluptuous celestial superstition.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      CHAPTER XXVI. FIRST LEAVES FROM A PHILOSOPHER NOTE-BOOK.
+    </h2>
+    <p class="pfirst">
+      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> am about to set
+      down, in as concise a manner as possible, and at present solely for my
+      private edification (some day, perhaps, another eye may read the lines,
+      but not yet), certain events which have lately influenced my domestic
+      life. Were it not that even a professed scientist might decline to publish
+      experiments affecting his own private happiness, the description of the
+      events to which I allude might almost form a chapter in my slowly
+      progressing &ldquo;Physiology of Ethics,&rdquo; and the description would be at least
+      as interesting as many of Ferriers accounts of vivisection on dumb
+      animals. But, unfortunately, I am unable, in this case, to apply the
+      dissecting knife to my neighbours heart, without laying bare the ugly
+      wound in my own.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      To begin then, I, George Haldane, recluse, pessimist, moral physiologist,
+      and would-be moral philosopher, have discovered, at forty years of age,
+      that I am capable of the most miserable of all human passions; worse, that
+      this said ignoble passion of jealousy has a certain rational foundation.
+      For ten years I have been happy with a wife who seemed the perfection of
+      human gentleness and beauty; who, although unfortunately we have been
+      blest with no offspring, has shown the tenderest solicitude and sympathy
+      for the children of my brain; and who, in her wifely faith and sanctity,
+      seemed to be the sole link still holding me to a church whose history has
+      always filled me with abhorrence, and a religion whose infantine theology
+      I despise. Well, <i>nous avons changé tout cela</i>. My mind is no longer
+      peaceful, my hearth no longer sacred; and the woman I love seems slowly
+      drifting from me on a stream of sensuous spiritualism&mdash;another name
+      for a religious rehabilitation of the flesh.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      If any other man were the victim, I should think the situation highly
+      absurd. Here, on the one hand, is a fanatical Protestant priest, with the
+      face of a seraphic monk, the experience of a schoolgirl, and the <i>gaucherie</i>
+      of a country chorister who has never grown a beard; a fellow whose sole
+      claims to notice are his white hands, his clean linen, and his function as
+      a silly shepherd; a man fresh from college, ignorant of the world. Here,
+      on the other hand, am I, physically and intellectually his master, knowing
+      almost every creed beneath the sun, and the slave of none; indifferent to
+      vulgar human passions, and disposed to disintegrate them one and all with
+      the electric current of a negative philosophy. Between us both, trembling
+      this way and that, is that fair thing of flesh and blood, my wife, zealous
+      to save her own soul alive, and fearful at times, I fancy, that I have
+      sold mine to the Prince of Darkness. It is another version of science
+      against superstition, common sense against a lie; and Ellen Haldane is the
+      prize. A fiery Spaniard, like Baptisto yonder, would end the affair with a
+      stiletto-thrust; but I, of colder blood, am not likely to do anything so
+      courageous or so foolish, but am content to watch and watch, and to feel
+      the sick contamination of my suspicion creeping over me like an
+      unwholesome mildew. A stiletto thrust? Why, the mere tongue, a less fatal
+      weapon, would do it all. If I could only summon up the courage to say to
+      my wife, &ldquo;I know your secret; choose between this man and me, between his
+      creed and mine, between your duty as a wife and your zeal as a Christian,&rdquo;
+       I fancy there would be an end to it all. But I am too timorous; I suppose,
+      too ashamed of my suspicions, too proud to acknowledge so contemptible a
+      rival. As a Spaniard covers his face with his mantle, I veil my soul with
+      my pride; and, under the mantle of unsuspicion, rest irresolute, while the
+      thing grows.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Once or twice, I have thought of another way&mdash;of taking my wife by
+      the hand and saying, &ldquo;To-morrow, my dear, we shall leave this place, and
+      return to Spain or Italy&mdash;some quiet place abroad.&rdquo; I could easily
+      find an excuse for the migration, which, once effected, would make an end
+      of the affair. But that, in my opinion, would be too cowardly. It would,
+      indeed, be an admission that the danger was real and imminent; that, in
+      other words, the fight for honour could only be saved by an ignominious
+      retreat. No; Ellen Haldane must take her chance. If she is not strong
+      enough to hold out against evil, then let her go&mdash;<i>au bon Dieu</i>
+      or <i>au bon diable</i>, as either leads.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Yet what am I saying? It is precisely because I have the utmost faith in
+      her purity of heart that I watch the struggle with a certain patience. I
+      believe there will be a victim, but not my Ellen. Surely, if there is a
+      good woman in the world, she is that woman. As for the other, every day,
+      every hour, brings the cackling creature further and further into my
+      decoy. Even if he tried to turn back now, I do not think I should let him.
+      No; let him swim in and on, and in and on, till he reaches the place where
+      I, like the decoy man, can catch him fluttering, and&mdash;wring his neck?
+      Perhaps.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It is quite clear that the man takes me for an idiot. At first he used
+      precautions, invented subterfuges; latterly, certain of my stupidity or
+      indifference, he comes and goes without disguise. When I meet him driving
+      side by side of my wife in the phaeton, on some pretended errand of mercy,
+      he gives me a careless bow, a nod. As he goes by my den, on his way to
+      invite her out to visit his sister or his church, he makes no excuse, but
+      passes jauntily, with a conversational pat for the stupid watch-dog: that
+      is all. It would be amusing, I say, if it were not almost insufferable.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This afternoon, as Ellen was going out, I blankly suggested that she
+      should stay at home.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But you are busy,&rdquo; she said&mdash;&ldquo;always busy with your books and
+      experiments.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Not too busy, my dear Nell, for a <i>tête-à-tête</i> with you. Where are
+      you going? To the Vicarage?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;To see the parson, or his sister?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Both. We have a great deal to discuss, about the designs for the new
+      stained-glass windows, which have just come from London.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Very interesting; but they will keep for a day. I fancy I could show you
+      something quite as interesting, in my laboratory.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I hate the laboratory,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;and those horrible experiments.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;My dear, you should not hate what your husband loves.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t mean that I hate them, quite; but I think them so useless!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;More useless than stained-glass windows?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is certainly not useless to beautify the House of God. Oh, I do so
+      wish you could feel as I do about these things! What is the world without
+      them?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Without stained-glass windows?&rdquo; I suggested sarcastically.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      She flushed impatiently.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;George, why have you such a dislike for religion? Why do you hate
+      everything I love?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Pardon me, my dear Nell, it was <i>you</i>, not I, that spoke of hating.
+      Philosophers never hate.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But you do worse; you despise it. Thank God we have no children. It would
+      be horrible to tell them that their father forbade them to go to church,
+      or pray!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      It was like a stab into my heart of hearts, that cry of thanks to God.
+      Despite myself, I lost my composure. She saw it instantly, and in the
+      manner of her sex, encroached.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, George, do try to think sometimes of these things, for my sake! You
+      would be so much happier, you surely would have so much more blessing, if
+      you sometimes prayed.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;How do you know that I do not pray?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Because you do not believe.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I do not believe precisely as your priest believes, that is all.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She looked at me eagerly; then, after a moments hesitation, cried&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;George, if I asked a favour, would you grant it?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Try.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Let Mr. Santley come sometimes, and speak with you about God!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      This was too much, almost, for even me to bear with equanimity. I am
+      afraid I did not look particularly amiable as I answered, sharp and short,
+      turning from her&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;After all, I think you had better go and look at those designs.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;There, you are angry again!&rdquo; she cried; and I knew by the sound of her
+      voice that her throat was choked with tears. &ldquo;You are always angry when I
+      touch upon religion.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You were not talking of religion,&rdquo; I retorted; &ldquo;you were talking of that
+      man.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why do you dislike him so? Because he is a preacher of the Word?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Because he is a canting hypocrite, like all his tribe,&rdquo; I cried.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      She saw that I had lost my temper, as was inevitable, and, sighing deeply,
+      moved to the door. I followed her with my eyes. I would have given the
+      world to call her back; to clasp her in my arms; to tell her my aching
+      fears; to promise her I would worship any God she choose, in any place, in
+      any way, so long as she would only be true, and answer my eager impulse
+      with a little love. But I was too proud for that.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then you are going?&rdquo; I said.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      She turned, looking at me very sadly.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, if you do not mind.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      I shrugged my shoulders, and after another sad, reproachful look, she left
+      the room. A minute afterwards, she drove her ponies past the window,
+      without looking up.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Thursday, September</i> 15.&mdash;A golden autumn day, so warm and
+      still that it reminded me of the Indian summer. Not a leaf stirred, but
+      the insects in the air were like floating blossoms, and seemed to sleep
+      upon their wings. Even all round my den the shadows were sultry, and
+      intertangled with slumberous shafts of light.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This fine weather rather disappointed me, for I had arranged for a day&rsquo;s
+      recreation. In my youth, before I was caught myself in the tedious snares
+      of speculation, I used to be an ardent fisherman, and I still retain
+      sufficient knowledge of the gentle craft to cast a fly tolerably. So,
+      tired of work, and a little weary of my own thoughts, I determined, for
+      the first time, to take advantage of the permission my neighbour, Lord
+      &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;, has given me, and spend a day upon the river
+      banks.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Despite the sunshine, and the absence of even a breath of wind, I
+      shouldered my basket, lifted my rod, and set off. Ellen was already out
+      and about; so I did not see her before I started. Taking a short cut
+      through the shrubberies, I soon came to the banks of the Emmet&mdash;as
+      pretty a little stream as ever rippled over golden sands, or reached out
+      an azure arm to turn some merry watermill. Arrived there, I soon saw that
+      it would be useless to try a cast till there was a little wind; so,
+      without putting my rod together, I strolled on along the river-side, till
+      I was several miles away from the Manor house.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The stream was rather low, but here and there were good deep pools, but so
+      calm, so sunny, that every overhanging tree, every finger of fern, every
+      blade of grass, was reflected in them as in a mirror. Still, as the time
+      was, the waters were full of life. Over the pools hung clusters of flies
+      like glittering spiders&rsquo; webs, scarcely moving in the sunshine; and when,
+      from time to time, a trout rose, he leaped a full foot into the golden air
+      above him, and sank back to coolness beneath an ever-widening ring of
+      light. Sometimes from the grassy edge of the bank a water-rat would slip,
+      swimming rapidly across, with his nose just lifted above the water, and
+      his tail leaving a thin, bright trail. Water-ouzels rose at every curve,
+      following swiftly the winding of the stream; and twice past my feet
+      flashed a kingfisher, like an azure ray.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The way lay sometimes through deep grassy meadows, sometimes by the sides
+      of corn-fields where the sheaves were already slanted, oftentimes through
+      thick shrubberies and woods already yellow with the withering leaf. From
+      time to time I passed a farm, with orchards sloping down to the very
+      water&rsquo;s edge, or pastures slanting down to shallows where the cattle
+      waded, breaking the water to silver streaks and whisking their tails
+      against the clustering swarms of gnats. It was very pleasant and very
+      still, but, from a fishing point of view, exceedingly absurd.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      By-and-by, however, a faint breeze began to touch the pools, and putting
+      my rod together, and selecting my finest casting-line and two tiny flies,
+      I tried a cast. Fortunately the wind was blowing sunward, and as I faced
+      the light, the shadow fell behind me; but, nevertheless, the shadow of my
+      rod flitted about at every cast, and threatened to spoil my sport. My
+      first catch was an innocent baby-fish as big as my thumb, who came at the
+      fly with a rush, and fought desperately when hooked. When I had disengaged
+      him, and put him back into the water, he simply gave a flip of his little
+      tail, and sailed contemptuously and quite leisurely out of sight, making
+      me call to mind, with unusual humiliation, the well-known definition which
+      Dr. Johnson gave of angling&mdash;&ldquo;a fish at one end of the line, and a
+      fool at the other,&rdquo; I had tried a good many, casts before I took my first
+      respectable fish&mdash;a trout of about half a pound. I caught him in a
+      nice broken bit of water, just below a quaint old water-mill; and just as
+      I put him into the basket, the portly miller came out to the granary door,
+      and looked at me with a dusty smile. He evidently thought me a lunatic, to
+      be out with a fishing-rod on such a day.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Half a mile further on I landed another glittering picture of at least a
+      quarter of a pound; after that, another of half a pound; then my luck
+      ceased, the wind fell, and it was full sunshine. By this time I had
+      wandered a good many miles from home, and reached the spot where the river
+      plunges into the Great Omberley woods. Here the stream was so rapid and
+      the boughs so thick, that it was useless to think of casting; so I put up
+      my rod, and, leaping over a fence, rambled away into the woods.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      How strange and dark and still it was, passing out of the sunshine into
+      those shadows, deep and cool as the bottom of the sea! The oak trees
+      stretched their gnarled boughs into the air, and all around them were the
+      lesser trees of the wood-willow, elder, blackthorn, ash, and hazel. The
+      ground beneath was carpeted with moss and grass as thick and soft as
+      velvet, with thick clusters of fern and bluebells round the tree roots,
+      and creepers dangling from every bough. And the wood, like the river, was
+      all alive! Conies tumbled across the patches of light, and flitted in the
+      shadow, like very elves of the woodland; squirrels ran up the gnarled tree
+      trunks; harmless silver snakes glided along the moss; but here and there,
+      swift and ominous, ran a weazel, darting its head this way and that, and
+      fiercely scenting the air, in one eternal glitter and hurry of
+      bloodthirsty emotion. Thrush, blackbird, finch, birds without number, sang
+      overhead; save when the shadow of the wind-hover or the sparrow-hawk
+      passed across the topmost branches, when there was a sudden and respectful
+      silence, to be followed by a precipitate hurry of exultation, as the enemy
+      passed away.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      If I had been a moralist, I might have seen in this wood a microcosm of
+      the world, with its abundant happiness, its beauty, and its dark spots of
+      moral ugliness and cruelty. In you, Signor Weazel (who came so near that I
+      touched you with my rod, which you snapped at ferociously, before bolting
+      swiftly into the deep grass), I might have seen the likeness of a certain
+      sleek creature of my own sex and species, who dwells not very far away.
+      Nevertheless, I let you go in peace; which was no mercy to the conies, I
+      suppose.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      So I entered the Forest Primaeval&mdash;or such it seemed to me, as the
+      blaze of sunshine faded, the boughs thickened, the air became full of dark
+      shadows and ominous silence. My steps were now deep in grass and fern, and
+      the scent of flowers and weeds was thick in my nostrils, but I chose a
+      path where the boughs were thinnest, and quietly pushed through. While
+      thus I rambled, I suppose that I fell, philosopher like, into a dream; at
+      any rate, I seemed to lose all count of time.=
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The world, the life of men, dissolved away
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Into a sense of dimness,
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      as some poet sings. I felt primaeval&mdash;archetypal so to speak, till a
+      sudden&rsquo; shifting of the vegetable kaleidoscope recalled from thoughts of
+      Plato and the Archetype to a cruel consciousness of self.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I was moving slowly on, when I heard the sound of voices quite close to
+      me. I paused, listening, and only just in time, for in another moment I
+      should have been visible to the speakers. Well shrouded in deep foliage, I
+      looked out to discover what sylvan creatures were disporting themselves in
+      that lonely place; and I saw&mdash;what shall I say? A nymph and a satyr?
+      a dryad and a goatfooted Faun?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Just beyond me, there was a broad-green road through the woodland, deeply
+      carpeted with soft grass, but marked here and there with the broad track
+      of a wood-waggon; and on the side of this solitary road, on a rude seat
+      fashioned of two oaken stumps and a rough plank, the nymph was sitting.
+      She wore a light dress of some soft material, a straw hat, a country
+      cloak, and gloves of Paris kid&mdash;a civilized nymph, as you perceive!
+      To complete her modern appearance, she carried a closed parasol, and a
+      roll which looked like music.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      How pretty she looked, with the warm light playing upon her delicate
+      features, and suffusing her form in its delicate drapery; with the
+      semi-transparent branches behind her, and flowers of the woodland at her
+      feet!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      CHAPTER XXVII. THE NOTE-BOOK CONTINUED NYMPH AND SATYR.
+    </h2>
+    <p class="pfirst">
+      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>nd the satyr? Ah!
+      I knew him at a glance, despite the elegant modern boots used to disguise
+      the cloven foot.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He wore black broadcloth and snowy linen, too, and a broad-brimmed
+      clerical hat. His face was seraphically pale, but I saw (or fancied I saw)
+      the twinkle of the hairy ears of the ignoble, sensual, nymph-compelling,
+      naiad-pursuing breed.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He was talking earnestly, with gestures of eager entreaty; for the nymph
+      was crying, and he was offering her some kind of consolation.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Presently he sat down by her side, and threw his arms around her. She
+      disengaged herself from his embrace, and rose trembling to her feet.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t touch me!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;That is all over now. I cannot bear it!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He rose also, and stood regarding her, not with the rapturous eyes&rsquo; of a
+      lover, but with a dark and gloomy gaze. Then he said, in a low voice,
+      something which I could not catch. But I heard her passionate reply.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, it is all over,&rdquo; she cried; &ldquo;and I shall never be at peace again.
+      Even, if you kept your word, it would be the same. You do not love me; you
+      never loved me&mdash;never!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      I crept a little closer, for I was anxious to hear his answer.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I do love you, Edith; and after what has passed between us&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She shrank away with a faint, despairing cry, and put her hand to her
+      face.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;After what has passed between us, do you think that my love can change?
+      But you are unjust to me, to yourself; too violent and too hard to please.
+      I do not like to be suspected, to be watched; and it is painful to me,
+      very painful, to be constantly called to an account by you. It is not
+      reasonable. Even as your husband, I would not bear it; it would poison the
+      peace between us, and convert our married life into a simple hell!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He paused; but her only answer was a sob of pain. So he sermonized on:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Between man and woman, Edith, there should be solemn confidence and
+      trust. When that ceases, love is sure to cease. Why, look at me! My trust
+      in you is so absolute that no action of yours could shake it; no matter
+      how peculiar were the circumstances, I should be certain of your faith,
+      your goodness. That is true love&mdash;absolute, implicit faith in the
+      beloved object. I wish I could persuade you to imitate it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You know that you can trust me,&rdquo; sobbed the poor child, &ldquo;because I have:
+      <i>proved</i> my love.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Have I not proved mine?&rdquo; he cried, with irritation. &ldquo;Have I not made
+      sacrifice upon sacrifice for your sake? Have I not remained here, in this
+      wretched country place, when I could have been promoted to other and
+      greater spheres of action? Have I not made you my companion, my
+      confidante, my nearest and dearest friend? Edith, why do you persist in
+      such accusations? What must I do to signify our attachment? Shall I marry
+      you at once? Speak the word, and although, as you know, it would involve
+      the ruin of all my worldly projects, I will do as you desire.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      I had-heard enough to convince me that the affair under discussion was no
+      affair of mine, and that I had no right to continue playing the spy; so I
+      was drawing back as gently as possible, and about to return the way I
+      came, when I was suddenly arrested by the next words spoken.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Give up Mrs. Haldane!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      I The nymph was the speaker. She stood with her wild eyes fixed upon the
+      other&rsquo;s face, which did not improve in beauty of expression. For myself, I
+      started, stung to the quick; then I returned, trembling, to my place of
+      espionage.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Give up Mrs. Haldane!&rdquo; repeated the girl. &ldquo;I ask nothing more than that.
+      I will not force you to marry me, Charles, till it is for your good;
+      indeed, if I did, I know that we should be unhappy, and that you would
+      never forgive me. But you can at least cease to be so familiar with Mrs.
+      Haldane.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He had discovered by this time, I suppose, that the pleading mood availed
+      him little; at all events, he suddenly changed his tone, and with a cry of
+      angry indignation, he exclaimed&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Edith, take care! I have told you that I will not suffer it! How dare you
+      suspect that lady! How dare you!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      And he stood towering over her (the satyr!) in the fulness of his snowy
+      shirtfront and the whiteness of his moral indignation.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is no use being angry,&rdquo; she returned, with a certain stubbornness,
+      though I could see that she was cowed, in the manner of gentle women, by
+      his violent physical passion. &ldquo;After what you have told me, after what I
+      have seen&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Edith, again, take care!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are always with her,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;night-time and day-time. I am
+      amazed that Mr. Haldane does not notice it. It is the talk of the place.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      With another exclamation, he turned his back and walked rapidly away.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Come back!&rdquo; she cried hysterically. &ldquo;If you leave like that, I will drown
+      myself in the river.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He returned and faced her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You will drive me mad!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I am sick of it. I am more like a slave
+      than a free man. You will not suffer me even to have a friend.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;She is more than a friend. You have told me yourself, that you loved
+      her.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And so I did,&rdquo; he answered, &ldquo;though of course she is nothing to me <i>now</i>.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why are you always with her?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am interested in her, deeply interested. She is unhappy with her
+      husband, and as a minister of the gospel&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      With her tearful, truthful eyes, fixed so earnestly upon him, no wonder he
+      paused and blushed.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Charles, do not be a hypocrite! At least be honest. She is more to you
+      than a friend.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He raised his hands heavenward, in pulpit fashion, and protested.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Edith, I swear to you before God, that there is nothing whatever between
+      us. She is a stainless lady, her husband does not understand her, I am her
+      spiritual friend and guide.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, Charles; I understand,&rdquo; she said, still earnestly watching him. &ldquo;<i>Justus
+      you were mine!</i>&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      I think it worth while to put that little sentence in italics. It was a
+      home stroke, and took away the satyr&rsquo;s breath.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Edith, for shame!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;You know you do not mean what you say. If I
+      thought you meant it, I should break with you for ever. I tell you again,
+      Mrs. Haldane is above reproach, and it is simply disgraceful to couple her
+      name, in such a manner, with mine. And you would infer, now, that I have
+      influenced your own life for evil; you would mock at my spiritual
+      pretensions, and brand me as a base, unworthy creature. Well, Edith,
+      perhaps you are right. Perhaps I have given you cause. I have shown you
+      that I love you, beyond position, beyond the world, beyond even my own
+      self-respect, and this is my return.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      I could have sprung out and strangled the fellow, he was so cruel and yet
+      so plausible, so superbly selfish and yet so completely self-deceiving;
+      and I saw that with every word he uttered he gained a fresh hold over the
+      heart of the pretty fool who was listening. While he spoke, she sobbed as
+      if her little heart was ready to break; and when he ceased, she eagerly
+      held out her arms.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, Charles, don&rsquo;t say that! Don&rsquo;t say that my love has been a curse to
+      you!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You drive me to say it,&rdquo; he answered moodily; &ldquo;you make me miserable with
+      your jealousy, your suspicion.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t say that I make you miserable&mdash;don&rsquo;t!&rdquo; she sobbed.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You used to be so different,&rdquo; he continued, still preserving his tone of
+      moral injury; &ldquo;you used to be so interested in my work, my daily duties.
+      Now, you do nothing but reproach me; and why? Because I have found an old
+      friend, who happens to be of your own sex, but who is far above the folly
+      of a meaningless flirtation, and who little deserves the cruel slur you
+      cast upon her. Am I, then, to have no friends, no acquaintances? Is every
+      step I take to be measured by the unreasoning suspicion of a jealous
+      woman?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      By this time she had put her arms about his neck, and was sobbing on his
+      breast.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, Charles, don&rsquo;t be so hard with me! It is all because I love you&mdash;ah,
+      so much!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But you should conquer these wicked feelings&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I try! I try!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You should have more confidence, more faith. You know how much I care for
+      you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes; but sometimes I feel afraid. Mrs. Haldane is so much cleverer, so
+      much more beautiful, than I am, and she was your first love. They say men
+      never love twice.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That is nonsense, Edith.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But you do love me, dear? you do?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Ugh, the satyr! He answered her with kisses, straining her to his heart
+      and she, sobbing and clinging round him, was quite conquered. I felt sick
+      to see her at his mercy. Then their voices sank, and he whispered, and I
+      saw the bright blood mount to her cheek and brow. But, alas! she did not
+      shrink away any more.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Then whispering and kissing, with eyes of passion fixed upon one another,
+      they moved away, taking a lonely path into the woods beyond me. My first
+      impulse was to follow them, and to tear them asunder. But after all, I
+      reflected it was no affair of mine, and I knew now, moreover, that nothing
+      in the world would save her from him&mdash;or from herself. .
+    </p>
+    <h3>
+      END OF VOL. II.
+    </h3>
+    <div style="height: 6em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+
+<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 48472 ***</div>
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-      Foxglove Manor, by Robert W. Buchanan

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-

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-

-Project Gutenberg's Foxglove Manor, Volume II (of III), by Robert W. Buchanan

-

-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most

-other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions

-whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of

-the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at

-www.gutenberg.org.  If you are not located in the United States, you'll have

-to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.

-

-

-

-Title: Foxglove Manor, Volume II (of III)

-       A Novel

-

-Author: Robert W. Buchanan

-

-Release Date: March 12, 2015 [EBook #48472]

-Last Updated: November 2, 2016

-

-Language: English

-

-Character set encoding: UTF-8

-

-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOXGLOVE MANOR, VOLUME II (OF III) ***

-

-

-

-

-Produced by David Widger from page images generously

-provided by the Internet Archive

-

-

-

-

-

-

-</pre>

-

-    <div style="height: 8em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h1>

-      FOXGLOVE MANOR

-    </h1>

-    <h3>

-      A Novel

-    </h3>

-    <h2>

-      By Robert W. Buchanan

-    </h2>

-    <h4>

-      In Three Volumes, Vol. II.

-    </h4>

-    <h5>

-      London <br /> Chatto And Windos, Piccadilly <br /> 1884

-    </h5>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <b>CONTENTS</b>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>FOXGLOVE MANOR</b>. </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER XIV. BAPTISTO STAYS AT HOME. </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER XV. CONJURATION. </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER XVI. AT THE OPERA. </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER XVII. WALTER HETHERINGTON. </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER XVIII. CHURCH BELLS&mdash;AND A DISCORD.

-      </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER XIX. HE IS BUT A LANDSCAPE PAINTER </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER XX. IN THE GLOAMING. </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER XXI. IN THE VICARAGE PARLOUR. </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER XXII. AT THE VICARAGE. </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER XXIII. DR. DUPRÉ&rsquo;S ELIXIR. </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XXIV. THE EXPERIMENT. </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XXV. &ldquo;BEWARE, MY LORD, OF JEALOUSY!&rdquo; </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XXVI. FIRST LEAVES FROM A PHILOSOPHER

-      NOTE-BOOK. </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XXVII. THE NOTE-BOOK CONTINUED NYMPH AND

-      SATYR. </a>

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      FOXGLOVE MANOR.

-    </h2>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XIV. BAPTISTO STAYS AT HOME.

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>s Haldane sat in

-      his study, the evening previous to the morning fixed for his journey to

-      London, Baptisto entered quickly and stood before the desk at which his

-      master was busily writing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Can I speak to you, senor?&rdquo; Haldane looked and nodded.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What is it, Baptisto?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You have arranged that I shall go with you to-morrow, but I have had

-      during the last few days an attack of my old vertigo. Can you possibly

-      dispense with my attendance, senor?&rdquo; Haldane stared in surprise at the

-      Spaniards face, which was inscrutable as usual.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Do you mean to say you wish to remain at home?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Certainly, senor.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why? because you are ill? On the contrary, you look in excellent health.

-      No; it is impossible. I cannot get along without you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      And Haldane returned to his papers as if the matter was ended.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Baptisto, however, did not budge, but remained in the same position, with

-      his dark eyes fixed upon his master.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Do me this favour, senor. I am really indisposed, and must beg to

-      remain.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane laughed, for an idea suddenly occurred to him which seemed to

-      explain the mystery of his servant&rsquo;s request.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My good Baptisto, I think I understand the cause of your complaint, and I

-      am sure a little travel will do you good. It is that dark-eyed widow of

-      the lodge-keeper who attaches you so much to the Manor. The warm blood of

-      Spain still burns in your veins, and, despite your sad experience of

-      women, you are still impressionable. Eh? am I right?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Baptisto quickly shook his head, with the least suspicion of a smile upon

-      his swarthy face.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am not impressionable, senor, and I do not admire your English women;

-      but I wish to remain all the same.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Nonsense!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Nonsense! In serious lament, senor, I beseech you to allow me to remain.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      But Haldane was not to be persuaded at what he conceived to be a mere whim

-      of his servant. He still believed that Baptisto had fallen a captive to

-      the charms of Mrs. Feme, a little plump, dark-eyed woman, with a large

-      family. He had frequently of late seen the Spaniard hanging about the

-      lodge&mdash;on one occasion nursing and dandling the youngest child&mdash;and

-      he had smiled to himself, thinking that the poor fellow&rsquo;s misanthropy, or

-      rather his misogynism, was in a fair way of coming to an end.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Finding his master indisposed to take his request seriously, Baptisto

-      retired; and presently Haldane strolled into the drawing-room, where he

-      found his wife.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Have you heard of the last freak of Baptisto? He actually wants to remain

-      at ease, instead of accompanying me in my journey.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Ellen looked up from some embroidery, in which she was busily engaged.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;On no account!&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;If you don&rsquo;t take him with you, I. shall

-      not stay in the place.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Dear me! said the philosopher. Surely you are not afraid of poor

-      Baptisto!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not afraid of him exactly, but he makes me shiver. He comes and goes like

-      a ghost, and when you least expect him, he is at your elbow. Then, of

-      course, I cannot help remembering he has committed a murder!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Nothing of the kind,&rdquo; said Haldane, laughing and throwing himself into a

-      chair. &ldquo;My dear Ellen, you don&rsquo;t believe the whole truth of that affair.

-      True, he surprised that Spanish wife of his with her gallant, whom he

-      stabbed; but I have it on excellent authority that it was a kind of

-      duello; the other man was armed, and so it was a fair fight.&rdquo; Ellen

-      shuddered, and showed more nervous agitation than her husband could quite

-      account for.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Take him away with you,&rdquo; she cried; &ldquo;take him away. If you never bring

-      him back, I shall rejoice. If I had been consulted, he would never have

-      been brought to England.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      A little later in the evening, when Haldane had returned to his papers,

-      which he was diligently finishing to take away with him, he rang and

-      summoned the Spaniard to his presence.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well, it is all settled. I have consulted your mistress, and she insists

-      in your accompanying me to-morrow.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      A sharp flash came upon Baptisto&rsquo;s dark eyes. He made an angry gesture;

-      then controlling himself, he said in a low, emphatic voice&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;The <i>senora</i> means it? <i>She</i> does not wish me to remain?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Just so.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;May I ask why?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Only because she does not want you, and I do. Between ourselves, she is

-      not quite so certain of you as I am. She has never forgotten that little

-      affair in Spain.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Again the dark eyes flashed, and again there was the same angry gesture,

-      instantly checked.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane continued.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You are violent sometimes, my Baptisto, and madame is a little afraid of

-      you. When she knows you better, as I know you, she will be aware that you

-      are rational; at present&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;At present, senor,&rdquo; said Baptisto, &ldquo;she would rather not have me so near.

-      Ah, I can understand! Perhaps she has reason to be afraid.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Something in the man&rsquo;s manner, which was sinister and almost threatening,

-      jarred upon his master&rsquo;s mind. Rising from his chair, Haldane stood with

-      his back to the fire, and, with a frown, regarded the Spaniard, as, he

-      said&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Listen to me, Baptisto. I have noticed with great annoyance, especially

-      of late, that your manner to madame has been strange, not to say sullen.

-      You are whimsical still, and apt to take offence. If this goes on, if you

-      fail in respect to your mistress, and make your presence uncomfortable in

-      this house, we shall have to part.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      To Haldane&rsquo;s astonishment, Baptisto asked an explanation, and, falling on

-      his knees, seized his master&rsquo;s hand and kissed it eagerly, &ldquo;Senor! Senor!

-      you don&rsquo;t comprehend. You don&rsquo;t think I am ungrateful, that I do not

-      remember? But you are wrong. I would die to save you&mdash;yes, I would

-      die; and I would kill with my own hand any one who did you an injury. I am

-      your servant, your slave&mdash;ah yes, till death.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Come, get up, and go and finish packing my things.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But, senor&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Get up, I say.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The Spaniard rose, and with folded hands and bent head stood waiting.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Get ready like a sensible fellow, and let us have no more of this

-      foolery. There, there, I understand. You are exciting yourself for

-      nothing.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then, I am to go, senor?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Certainly.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Early the next morning Baptisto entered the carriage with his master, and

-      was driven to the railway station, some seven miles away. As they went

-      along, Haldane noticed that the man looked very ill, and that from time to

-      time he put his hand to his head as if in pain. At the railway station,

-      while they were waiting for the train, matters looked most serious.

-      Suddenly the Spaniard fell forward on the platform as if in strong

-      convulsions, his eyes starting out of his head, his mouth foaming. They

-      sprinkled water on his face, chafed his hands, and with some difficulty

-      brought him round.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;The devil!&rdquo; muttered Haldane to himself. &ldquo;It looks like epilepsy!&rdquo;

-       Baptisto was placed on a seat, and lay back ghastly pale, as if utterly

-      exhausted.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Are you better now?&rdquo; asked Haldane, bending over him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;A little better, senor.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      But seeing him so utterly helpless, and likely to have other seizure,

-      Haldane rapidly calculated in his own mind the inexpediency of taking him

-      away on a long railway journey. After all, the poor fellow had not

-      exaggerated his condition, when he had pleaded illness as an excuse for

-      remaining at home.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;After all,&rdquo; said Haldane, &ldquo;I think you will have to remain behind.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Baptisto opened his eyes feebly, and stretched out his hands.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, senor; since you wish it, I will go.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You shall remain,&rdquo; answered Haldane, just as the whistle of the coming

-      train was heard in the distance. &ldquo;Perhaps, if you are better in a day or

-      two, you can follow; but you will go away now in the carriage, and send

-      over to Dr. Spruce, and he will prescribe for you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Baptisto did not answer, but, taking his masters hand, kissed it

-      gratefully. The train came up. Haldane entered a carriage, and, gazing

-      from the window as the train began to move on, saw Baptisto still seated

-      on the platform, very pale, his eyes half closed, his head recumbent. Near

-      him stood the station master, a railway porter, and the groom who had

-      driven them over from the Manor, all regarding him with languid curiosity.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      But the moment the train was gone, Baptisto began to recover. Rising to

-      his feet, and refusing all offers of assistance from the others, he

-      strolled out of the station, and quietly mounted the dog-cart. The groom

-      got up beside him, and they drove homeward through the green lanes.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Now, Baptisto was a gentleman, and seldom entered or tolerated familiarity

-      from his fellow-servants. Had it been otherwise, the groom might have

-      asked the explanation of his curious conduct; for no sooner was he mounted

-      on the dogcart, and driving along in the fresh air, than the Spaniard

-      seemed to forget all about his recent illness, sat erect like a man in

-      perfect health, and exhibited none of the curious symptoms which had so

-      alarmed his master.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      And when the groom, who was a thirsty individual, suggested that they

-      should make a detour and call at the Blue Boar Inn for a little stimulant,

-      chiefly as a corrective to the attack from which his companion had just

-      suffered, the Spaniard turned his dark eyes round about him and actually

-      winked. This proceeding so startled the groom that he almost dropped the

-      reins, for never in the whole course of his sojourn had the foreign gent

-      condescended to such a familiarity.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      They drove round to the Blue Boar, however, and the groom consumed the

-      brandy, while Baptisto, who was a teetotaller, had some lemonade, and lit

-      his cigar. Then they drove home to the Manor, Baptisto sitting with folded

-      arms, completely and absolutely recovered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      About noon that day, as Mrs. Haldane moved about the conservatory, looking

-      after her roses, a servant announced the Rev. Mr. Santley. Ellen flushed,

-      a little startled at the announcement, coming so soon after her husband&rsquo;s

-      departure, and her first impulse was to deny herself; but before she could

-      do so the clergyman himself appeared at the door of the conservatory.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You are an early visitor,&rdquo; she said coldly, bending her face over the

-      flowers.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It is just noon,&rdquo; answered the clergyman, &ldquo;and I was going home from a

-      sick-call. Has Mr. Haldane gone?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes. Did you wish to see him?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not particularly, though I had a little commission which I might have

-      asked him to execute had I been in time.&rdquo; Surely the man&rsquo;s fall had

-      already begun. Ellen knew perfectly well that he was lying. In point of

-      fact, he had seen the dog-cart drive past on the way to the station, and

-      he had been unable to resist the temptation of coming over without delay.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      With face half averted, Ellen led the way into the drawing-room, and on to

-      the terrace beyond, from which there was a pleasant view of the Manor, the

-      plain, and the surrounding country. Just below the gardens were laid out

-      in flowerbeds and gravel walks; but the dark shrubberies were beyond, and

-      at a little distance, well in the shadow of the trees, the old chapel.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      There was a long silence. Ellen stood silent, gazing upon the woods and

-      lawn, while the clergyman stood just behind her, evidently regarding her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At last she could bear it no longer, but, turning quickly, exclaimed&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why did you come? Have you anything to say to me?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Nothing, Ellen, if you are angry,&rdquo; replied the clergyman.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Angry! You surely know best if I have cause. After what has passed, I

-      think it is better that we should not meet,&rdquo; she added in a low voice. &ldquo;At

-      least, not often.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He saw she was agitated, and he took a certain pleasure in her agitation,

-      for it showed him that she was not quite unsusceptible to the influence he

-      might bring to bear upon her. As he stood there, his sad eyes fixed upon

-      her, his being conscious of every movement she made, of every breath she

-      drew, he felt again the deep fatality of his passion, and silently yielded

-      to it.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      There was another long pause, which he was the first to break.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Do you know, Ellen, I sometimes tremble for you, when I think of your

-      husbands opinions. In time you may learn to share them, and then we should

-      be further apart than ever. At present, it is my sole comfort to know you

-      possess that living faith without which every soul is lost.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Lost?&rdquo; she repeated, in a bewildering way, not looking at him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t mean in the vulgar sense; the theological ideas of damnation have

-      never had my sanction, far less my sympathy. But materialism degrades the

-      believer, and sooner or later comes a disbelief in all that is holy,

-      beautiful, and sanctified. It is a humble creed, the new creed of science,

-      and fatal to spiritual hopes.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Does it matter so much what one believes, if one&rsquo;s life is good?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It matters so much that I would rather see one I loved dead before my

-      feet than an avowed unbeliever. But there, I have not come to preach to

-      you. When does Mr. Haldane return?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;As I told you: in a fortnight, perhaps sooner.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And during his absence we shall meet again, I hope?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She hesitated and looked at him. His eyes were fixed on the distant woods,

-      though he stood expectantly, as if awaiting her reply, which did not come.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Can you not trust me?&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;You know I am your friend?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I hope so; but I think it is best that you should not come here. If you

-      were married, it would be different.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I shall not marry,&rdquo; he replied impatiently. &ldquo;What then? I am a priest of

-      God, and you may trust me fully. If our Church commenced the confessional,

-      you might enter it without fear, and I&mdash;I would listen to the

-      outpourings of your heart. Should you in your grief be afraid to utter

-      them?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She moved away from him, turning her back; but betrayed herself. He saw

-      the bright colour mount to her neck and mantle there.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What nonsense you talk!&rdquo; she said presently, with a forced laugh. &ldquo;Are

-      you going over to Rome?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I might go over to the evil place itself, Ellen, if <i>you</i> were

-      there.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      There was no mistaking the words, the tone, in their diabolic gentleness,

-      their suavity of supreme and total self-surrender. She felt helpless in

-      spite of herself. The man was overmastering her, and rapidly encroaching.

-      She felt like a person morally stifled, and with a strong effort tried to

-      shake the evil influence away.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I was right,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;We must not meet.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He smiled sadly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;As you please. I will come, or I will go, at your will. You have only to

-      say to me, &lsquo;Go and destroy yourself, obliterate yourself for ever from my

-      life, blot yourself out from the roll of living beings,&rsquo; and I shall obey

-      you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her spirit revolted more and more against the steadfast, self-assured

-      obliquity of the man. She saw that he was desperate, and that the danger

-      grew with his desperation. In every word he spoke, and in his whole

-      manner, there was the sombre assurance of something between them, of some

-      veiled, but excitable sympathy, which she herself utterly ignored. That

-      moment of wild delirium, when he caught her in his arms and kissed her,

-      seemed, instead of severing them, to have made a link between them. He had

-      been conscious of her indignation, he had even professed penitence; but

-      she saw to her dismay that the fact of his folly filled him, not with

-      fear, but with courage. So she determined to end it once and for ever.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Let us understand each other,&rdquo; she said, trembling violently. &ldquo;How dare

-      you talk as if there was any community of feeling between us? How dare you

-      presume upon my patience, Mr. Santley? It is wretched; it is abominable!

-      When you talk of killing yourself, when you assume that I have any serious

-      interest in you, or any right over you, you insult me and degrade

-      yourself. We are nothing, and can be nothing to each other.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I know that,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;Do you think I am so mad as not to know that?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then why do you come here to torture me, and to tempt me?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The word came from her before she knew it, and her face became scarlet;

-      but he uttered no protest, and raised his white hand in deprecation.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Tempt you? God forbid!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I did not mean that,&rdquo; she murmured, in confusion; &ldquo;but you must know, you

-      cannot fail to know, that it is not right for a married woman to receive

-      such expressions of sympathy, however spiritual. It is that which makes me

-      hate the Catholic Church. The priest promises you his office, and too

-      often makes mischief under the guise of religion.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Do you accuse me of doing so?&rdquo; he demanded, in the same sad, calm voice.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No; but you should remember that you have not the custody of my soul, and

-      I have no right to influence your actions. Come,&rdquo; she continued, with

-      rather a forced laugh, &ldquo;talk to me like a true English clergyman. Tell me

-      of the old women of the village, and their ailments; ask me for a

-      subscription to give to your new soup kitchen; talk to me as if Mr.

-      Haldane were listening to us&mdash;of your schools, your parish troubles&mdash;and

-      you shall find me an eager listener!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I will talk of anything, Ellen, so long as I may talk to you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Again that manner of despairing certainty, of assured and fatal sympathy.

-      The man was incorrigible.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She waited impatiently for some minutes, but finding he did not speak

-      again, she held out her hand.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Since you have nothing more to tell me,&rdquo; she observed lightly, &ldquo;I think I

-      will say good morning. I am going to order the carriage and drive to

-      Omberley.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;When may I come again?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;When you have anything really parochial to say to me. Please go now.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Their eyes met, and hers sank beneath his own.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As he crossed towards the door it opened, and Baptisto appeared upon the

-      threshold.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Did you ring, senora?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      At the sight of the Spaniard&rsquo;s dull impressive face Mrs. Haldane started

-      violently, and went a little pale. She had heard nothing of his return,

-      and he came like an apparition.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Baptisto! What are you doing here? I thought&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She paused in wonder, while the Spaniard inclined his head and bowed

-      profoundly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I was taken with a vertigo at the station, and the senor permitted me to

-      return.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then your master has gone alone?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, senora.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Very well. Order the carriage at once. I am going out.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Baptisto bowed and retired, quickly closing the door.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Santley, who had stood listening during the above conversation, now

-      prepared to follow, but, glancing at Ellen, saw that she was unusually

-      agitated.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That is a sinister-looking fellow,&rdquo; he remarked. &ldquo;I am afraid he has

-      frightened you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Indeed, no,&rdquo; she replied; &ldquo;though I confess I was startled at his

-      unexpected return. Good-bye.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Good-bye,&rdquo; he said, again taking her hand and holding it up a moment in

-      his own.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Passing from the drawing-room, he again came face to face with Baptisto,

-      who was lurking in the lobby, but who drew aside with a respectful bow, to

-      allow the clergyman to pass.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He crossed the hall, descended the stone steps of the portico, and walked

-      slowly towards the lodge. As he passed the ruined chapel, its shadows

-      seemed to fall upon his spirit and leave it in ominous darkness. He

-      shivered slightly, and drew his cloak about him, then with his eyes cast

-      down he thoughtfully walked on.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He did not glance back. Had he done so, he would have seen Baptisto

-      standing on the steps of the Manor house, watching him with a sinister

-      smile.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XV. CONJURATION.

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was a chill day

-      in early autumn, and as Charles Santley passed along the dark avenue of

-      the Manor his path was strewn here and there with freshly fallen leaves.

-      Dark shadows lay on every side, and the heaven above was full of a sullen,

-      cheerless light. It was just the day for a modern Faust, in the course of

-      his noonday walk, to encounter, in some fancied guise, canine or human,

-      the evil one of old superstition.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Be that as it may, Santley knew at last that the hour of his temptation

-      was over, and that the evil one was not far away. He knew it, by the

-      sullen acquiescence of evil of his own soul; by the deliberate and

-      despairing precision with which he had chosen the easy and downward path;

-      by the sense of darkness which already obliterated the bright moral

-      instincts in his essentially religious mind. He had spoken the truth when

-      he said he would follow Ellen Haldane anywhere, even to the eternal pit

-      itself. Her beauty possessed him and disturbed him with the joy of impure

-      thoughts; and now that he perceived his own power to trouble her peace of

-      mind, he rejoiced at the strength of his passion with a truly diabolic

-      perversity.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As he came out of the lodge gate he saw, far away over the fields, the

-      spire of his own church.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He laughed to himself.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      But the man&rsquo;s faith in spiritual things, so far from being shaken, was as

-      strong as ever. His own sense of moral deterioration, of spiritual

-      backsliding, only made him believe all the more fervently in the heaven

-      from which he had fallen, or might choose to fall. For it is surely a

-      mistake to picture, as so many poets have pictured, the evil spirit as one

-      ignorant of or insensible to good. Far wiser is the theology which

-      describes Satan as the highest of angelic spirits&mdash;the spirit which,

-      above all others, had beheld and contemplated the Godhead, and had then,

-      in sheer revolt and negation, deliberately and advisedly decided its own

-      knowledge and rejected its own truthright. Santley was, in his basest

-      moods, essentially a godly man&mdash;a man strangely curious of the beauty

-      of goodness, and capable of infinite celestial dreams. If, like many

-      another, he confused the flesh and the spirit, he did no more than many

-      sons of Eve have done.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As he walked slowly along he mused, somewhat to this effect&mdash;&ldquo;I love

-      this woman. In her heart she loves me. Her superior spiritual endowments

-      are mystically alive to those I myself possess. Her husband is a clod, an

-      unbeliever, with no spiritual promptings. In his sardonic presence, her

-      aspirations are chilled, frozen at the very fountain-head; whereas, in

-      mine, all the sweetness and the power of her nature are aroused, though

-      with a certain irritation. If I persist, she must yield to the slow moral

-      mesmerism of my passion, and eventually fall. Is this necessarily evil? Am

-      I of set purpose sinning? Is it not possible that even a breach of the

-      moral law might, under certain conditions, lead us both to a higher

-      religious place&mdash;yes, even to a deeper and intenser consciousness of

-      God?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      And again&mdash;&ldquo;What <i>is</i> sin? Surely it is better than moral

-      stagnation, which is death. There are certain deflections from duty which,

-      like the side stroke of a bird&rsquo;s wing, may waft us higher. In the arms of

-      this woman, I should surely be nearer God than crawling alone on the bare

-      path of duty, loving nothing, hoping nothing, becoming nothing. What is it

-      that Goethe says of the Eternal Feminine which lead us ever upward and

-      onward? Which was the highest, Faust before he loved Marguerite, or Faust

-      after he passed out of the shadow of his sin into the sphere of imperial

-      and daring passion? I believe in God, I love this woman. Out of that

-      belief, and that love, shall I not become a living soul?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Was this the man&rsquo;s own musing, or rather the very devil whispering in his

-      ear? From such fragmentary glimpses of his mind as have been given, we can

-      at least guess the extent of his intellectual degradation.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As he walked along the country road, his pale countenance became seraphic;

-      just so may the face of Lucifer have looked when he plumed his wings for

-      deliberate flight from heaven.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He stepped into a roadside farm and had a glass of milk, which the good

-      woman of the place handed to him with a sentiment of adoration; he looked

-      so gentle, so at peace with all living things. His white hand rested for a

-      moment on the head of her little girl, in gentle benediction. He had never

-      felt more tenderly disposed to all creation than at that moment, when he

-      was prepared to dip a pen into his own hearts blood, and sign the little

-      promissory note which Mephistopheles carries, always ready, in his pocket.

-      He had hated his congregation before; now he loved them exceedingly&mdash;and

-      all the world.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XVI. AT THE OPERA.

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>n arriving in

-      London, George Haldane was driven straight to the house of an old friend

-      at Chelsea, where he always stayed during his visits to the Metropolis.

-      This friend was Lovell Blakiston, as eccentric a being in his own way as

-      Haldane himself was in his. He had been, since boyhood, in the India

-      Office, where he still put in an appearance several hours a day, and

-      whence he still drew a large income, with the immediate right to a

-      retiring pension whenever he choose to take it. He was a great student,

-      especially of the pagan poets and philosophers; and the greater part of

-      his days and nights were spent in his-old-fashioned library, opening with

-      folding doors on to a quiet lawn, which led in its turn to the very

-      river-side. He had two pet aversions&mdash;modern progress, in the shape

-      of railroads, electricity, geology; all the new business of science and

-      modern religion, especially in its connection with Christian theology. He

-      was, in short, a pagan pure and simple, fond of old books, old wine, old

-      meditations, and old gods. However he might differ with Haldane on such

-      subjects&rsquo; as the nebular hypothesis, which he hated with all his heart, he

-      agreed with him sufficiently on the subject of Christianity. Both had a

-      cordial dislike for church ceremonies and church bells.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The two gentlemen had another taste in common. This was the opera, which

-      both enjoyed hugely, though Blakiston never ceased to regret the

-      disappearance of that old operatic institution, the ballet, which, like a

-      rich dessert wine, used to bring the feast of music to a delightfully

-      sensuous conclusion. Haldane was too young a man to remember such visions

-      of loveliness as Cerito, whom his old friend had often gone to see in

-      company with Horne Took.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      So it happened that two or three days after his arrival, Haldane

-      accompanied his host to the opera house, where Patti was to appear in

-      &ldquo;Traviata.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Seated comfortably in the stalls, he was glancing quietly round the house

-      between the acts, when his attention was attracted to a face in one of the

-      private boxes. A pale, Madonna-like, yet girlish face, set in golden hair,

-      with soft blue eyes, and an expression so forlorn, so wistful, so ill at

-      ease, that it was almost painful to behold.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane started in surprise.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What is the matter?&rdquo; said his friend; &ldquo;Have you recognized anybody?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am not certain,&rdquo; returned Haldane, raising his opera-glass and

-      surveying the face through them. Then, after a long look, he added&rsquo; as if

-      to himself, &ldquo;I am almost sure it is the same.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Do you mean that young lady in black, seated in the second tier?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes. Oblige me by looking at her, and tell me what you think of her.&rdquo;

-       Blakiston raised his opera-glass, and took a long look.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo; asked Haldane.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;She reminds me of one of your detestable pre-Raphaelistic drawings,

-      shockheaded and vacuous. She is pretty, I grant you, but she has no

-      expression.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I should say, on the contrary, a very marked expression of deep pain.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Tight lacing,&rdquo; grunted Blakiston. &ldquo;Your modern women have no shape, since

-      Cerito.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Here Haldane rose from his seat. Looking up again, he had met the young

-      lady&rsquo;s eyes, and had perceived at once that she recognized him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am going to speak to her,&rdquo; he explained. &ldquo;She is a neighbour of ours,

-      and a friend of my wife.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He made his way to the second tier, and finding the door of the box open,

-      he looked in, and saw the person he sought, seated in company with an

-      elderly lady and a young man.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Miss Dove!&rdquo; he said, advancing into the box. &ldquo;Although we have only met

-      twice, I thought I could not be mistaken.&rdquo; Edith (for it was she) turned

-      quickly and took his outstretched hand..

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;How strange to find you here!&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;Is Mrs. Haldane with you?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, indeed. I left her to the pious duties of the parish, which she is

-      fulfilling daily, I expect, in company with your seraphic friend the

-      minister.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Edith looked at him with strange surprise, but said nothing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;When did you come to town?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;I thought you were quite a country

-      young lady, and never ventured into the giddy world of London.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I was not very well,&rdquo; replied Edith, &ldquo;and my aunt invited me to stop with

-      her a few weeks. This is my aunt, Mrs. Hetherington; and this gentleman is

-      my cousin Walter.&rdquo; Here Edith went somewhat nervously through the ceremony

-      of introduction. She added, with a slight flush, &ldquo;My cousin insisted on

-      bringing us here to-night. I did not wish to come.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo; demanded Haldane, noticing her uneasiness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Because I did not think it right; and I have been thinking all the

-      evening what the vicar will say when I tell him I have been to such a

-      place.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Here the old lady shook her head ominously, and gave a slight groan.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Is the place so terrible,&rdquo; asked Haldane, smiling, &ldquo;now you have seen

-      it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, it is very pretty; and of course the singing is beautiful. But Mr.

-      Santley does not approve of the theatre, and I am sorry I came.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Nonsense, Edith,&rdquo; said young Hetherington, with a laugh. &ldquo;You know you

-      wanted to see the &lsquo;Traviata,&rsquo; The fact is,&rdquo; he continued, turning to

-      Haldane, &ldquo;my mother and my cousin are both terribly old-fashioned. My

-      mother here is Scotch, and believes in the kirk, the whole kirk, and

-      nothing but the kirk; and as for Edith, she is entirely, as they say in

-      Scotland, under the minister&rsquo;s &lsquo;thoomb.&rsquo; I thought they would have enjoyed

-      themselves, but they have been doing penance all the evening.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Without paying attention to her cousin&rsquo;s remarks, Edith was looking

-      thoughtfully at Haldane.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;When do you return to Omberley?&rdquo; she asked.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am not sure&mdash;in a fortnight, at the latest. I am going on to

-      France.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And Mrs. Haldane will remain all that time alone?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;Oh, she will not miss me. She has her household

-      duties, her parish, her garden&mdash;to say nothing of her clergyman. And

-      you, do <i>you</i> stay long in London?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am not sure; I think not. I am tired of it already.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Again that weary, wistful look, which sat so strangely on the young,

-      almost childish face. She sighed, and gazed sadly around the crowded

-      house. A minute later, Haldane took his leave, and rejoined his friend in

-      the stalls. Looking up at the end of the next act, he saw that the box was

-      empty.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The women had yielded to their consciences, and departed before the end of

-      the performance.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      That night, when Haldane went home to Chelsea, he found a letter from his

-      wife. It was a long letter, but contained no news whatever, being chiefly

-      occupied with self-reproaches that the writer had not accompanied her

-      husband in his pilgrimage. This struck Haldane as rather peculiar, as in

-      former communications Ellen had expressed no such dissatisfaction; but he

-      was by nature and of set habit unsuspicious, and he set it down to some

-      momentary <i>ennui</i>. The letter contained no mention whatever of Mr.

-      Santley, but in the postscript, where ladies often put the most

-      interesting part of their correspondence, there was a reference to the

-      Spanish valet, Baptisto.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;As I told you,&rdquo; wrote Ellen, &ldquo;Baptisto seems in excellent health, though

-      he is mysterious and unpleasant as usual. He comes and goes like a ghost,

-      but if he made you believe that he was ill, he was imposing upon you. I do

-      so wish you had taken him with you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane folded up the letter with a smile.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Poor Baptisto!&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;I suppose it is as I suspected, and the

-      little widow at the lodge is at the bottom of it all.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      After a few days&rsquo; sojourn at Chelsea, during which time he was much

-      interested in certain spiritualistic investigations which were just then

-      being conducted by the London <i>savants</i>, to the manifest confusion of

-      the spirits and indignation of true believers, Haldane went to Paris,

-      where he read his paper before the French Society to which he belonged.

-      There we shall leave him for a little time, returning to the company of

-      Miss Dove, with whom we have more immediate concern.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Mother and son lived in a pleasant house overlooking Clapham Common, a

-      district famous for its religious edification, its young ladies&rsquo; 

-      seminaries, and its dissenting chapels. Mrs. Hethering-ton was the wealthy

-      widow of a Glasgow merchant, long settled in London, and she set her face

-      rigidly against modern thought, ecclesiastical vestments, and cooking on

-      the sabbath. Curiously enough, her son Walter, who inherited a handsome

-      competence, was a painter, and followed his heathen occupation with much

-      talent, and more youthful enthusiasm. His landscapes, chiefly of Highland

-      scenes, had been exhibited in the Royal Scottish Academy. His mother,

-      whose highest ideas of art were founded on a superficial acquaintance with

-      the Scripture pieces of Noel Paton, and an occasional contemplation of

-      biblical masterpieces in the Doré Gallery, would have preferred to have

-      seen him following in his fathers footsteps, and even entering the true

-      kirk as a preacher; but his sympathies were pagan, and a gloomy childish

-      experience had not fitted him with the requisite enthusiasm for John

-      Calvin and the sabbath.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Walter Hetherington was a fine fresh young fellow of three and twenty, and

-      belonged to the clever set of Scotch painters, headed by Messrs. Pettie,

-      Richardson, and Peter Graham. He was &ldquo;cannie&rdquo; painstaking, and rather

-      sceptical, and, putting aside his art, which he really loved, he felt true

-      enthusiasm for only one thing in the world&mdash;his cousin Edith, whom he

-      hoped and longed to make his wife.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As a very young girl, Edith had seemed rather attached to him; but of late

-      years, during which they saw each other only at long intervals, she seemed

-      colder and colder to his advances. He noticed her indifference, and set it

-      down somewhat angrily to girlish fanaticism, for he had little or no

-      suspicion whatever that another man&rsquo;s image might be filling her thoughts.

-      Once or twice, it is true, when she sounded the praises of her Omberley

-      pastor, his zeal, his goodness, his beauty of discourse, he asked himself

-      if he could possibly have a rival <i>there</i>; but knowing something of

-      the relinquent fancies of young vestals, he rejected the idea. To tell the

-      truth, he rather pitied the Rev. Mr. Santley, whom he had never seen, as a

-      hardheaded, dogmatic, elderly creature of the type greatly approved by his

-      mother, and abundant even in Clapham. He had no idea of an Adonis in a

-      clerical frock coat, with a beautiful profile, white hands, and a voice

-      gentle and low&mdash;the latter an excellent thing in woman, but a

-      dangerous thing in an unmarried preacher of the Word.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XVII. WALTER HETHERINGTON.

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hen the party got

-      home from the opera, it was only half-past ten. They sat down to a frugal

-      supper in the dining-room.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am sorry you did not wait till the last act,&rdquo; said the young man, after

-      an awkward silence. &ldquo;Patti&rsquo;s death scene is magnificent.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m thinking we heard enough,&rdquo; his mother replied. &ldquo;I never cared much

-      for play-acting, and I see little sense in screeching about in a foreign

-      tongue. I&rsquo;d rather have half an hour of the Reverend Mr. Mactavish&rsquo;s

-      discourses than a night of fooling like yon.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What do <i>you</i> say, Edith? I&rsquo;m sure the music was very pretty.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, it was beautiful; but not knowing much of Italian, I could not

-      gather what it was all about.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It is an operatic version of a story of the younger Dumas,&rdquo; explained

-      Walter, with an uncomfortable sense of treading on dangerous ground. &ldquo;The

-      story is that of a beautiful woman who has lived an evil life, and is

-      reformed through her affection for a young Frenchman. His friends think he

-      is degrading himself by offering to marry her, and to cure him she

-      pretends to be false and wicked. In the end, she dies in his arms,

-      broken-hearted. It is a very touching subject, I think, though some people

-      consider it immoral.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Here the matron broke in with quiet severity.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I wonder yon woman&mdash;Patti, you call her&mdash;doesn&rsquo;t think shame to

-      appear in such dresses. One of them was scarcely decent, and I was almost

-      ashamed to look at her&mdash;the creature!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But her singing, mother, her singing; was it not divine?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It was meeddling loud; but I&rsquo;ve heard far finer in the kirk. Edith, my

-      bairn, you&rsquo;re tired, I&rsquo;m thinking. We&rsquo;ll just read a chapter, and get to

-      bed.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      So the chapter was read, and the ladies retired, while Walter walked off

-      to his studio to have a quiet pipe. He was too used to his mother&rsquo;s

-      peculiarities to be much surprised at the failure of the evening&rsquo;s

-      entertainment; but he felt really amazed that Edith had not been more

-      impressed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The next morning, when they met at breakfast, Edith astonished both her

-      aunt and cousin by expressing her wish to return to Omberley as soon as

-      possible.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Go away already!&rdquo; cried the young man. &lsquo;&ldquo;Why, you&rsquo;ve hardly been here a

-      week, and you&rsquo;ve seen nothing of town, and we&rsquo;ve all the picture-galleries

-      to visit yet.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And you have not heard Mr. Mactavish discoorse,&rdquo; cried his mother. &ldquo;No,

-      no; you must bide awhile.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      But Edith shook her head, and they saw her mind was made up.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I can come again at Christmas, but I would rather go now,&rdquo; she said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But why have you changed your mind?&rdquo; inquired her cousin eagerly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I think they want me at home; and there is a great deal of church work to

-      be done in the village.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Walter was not deceived by this excuse, and tried persuasion, but it was

-      of no avail. The girl was determined to return home immediately. He little

-      knew the real cause of her determination. Haldane&rsquo;s presence in London had

-      filled her, in spite of herself, with jealous alarm. Ellen Haldane was

-      alone at the Manor, with no husband&rsquo;s eyes to trouble her; and, despite

-      the clergyman&rsquo;s oath of fidelity, Edith could not trust him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Yes, she would go home. It was time to put an end to it all, to remind

-      Santley of his broken promises, and to claim their fulfilment. If he

-      refused to do her justice, she would part from him for ever; not, however,

-      without letting the other woman, her rival, know his true character.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was arranged that she should leave by an early train next morning. For

-      the greater part of the day she kept her room, engaged in preparations for

-      the journey; but towards evening Walter found her alone in the

-      drawing-room. The old lady, his mother, who earnestly wished him to marry

-      his cousin, had contrived to be out of the way.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am so sorry you are going,&rdquo; the young man said. &ldquo;We see so little of

-      each other now.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Edith was seated with her back to the window, her face in deep shade. She

-      knew by her cousin&rsquo;s manner that he was more than usually agitated, and

-      she dreaded what was coming&mdash;what had come, indeed, on several

-      occasions before. She did not answer, but almost unconsciously heaved a

-      deep sigh.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Does that mean that you are sorry too?&rdquo; asked Walter, leaning towards her

-      to see her face.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Of course I am sorry,&rdquo; she replied, with a certain constraint.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I wish I could believe that. Somehow or other, Edith, it seems to me that

-      you would rather be anywhere than here. Well, you have some cause; for the

-      house is dreary enough, and we are all dull people. But you and I used to

-      be such friends! More like brother and sister than mere cousins. Is that

-      all over? Are we to drift farther and farther apart as the years pass on?

-      It seems to me as if it might come to that.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;How absurd you are!&rdquo; said Edith, trying to force a laugh, but failing

-      lamentably. &ldquo;You know I was always fond of you and&mdash;and&mdash;of your

-      mother.&rdquo; Walter winced under the sting of the last sentence, so

-      unconsciously given.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t mean that at all,&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;Of course you liked us, as

-      relations like each other; but am I never to be more to you than a mere

-      cousin? You know I love you, that I have loved you ever since we were boy

-      and girl; and once&mdash;ah, yes, I thought you cared for me a little.

-      Edith, what does it mean? Why are you so changed?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Edith was more deeply changed than ever her cousin could guess. Had he

-      been able to see her face, he would have been wonder-stricken at its

-      expression of mingled shame and despair. She tried to reply; but before

-      she could do so her voice was choked, and her tears began to fall. In a

-      moment he was close beside her, and bending over her, with one hand

-      outstretched to clasp her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Now, you are crying. Edith, my darling, what is it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t touch me,&rdquo; she sobbed, shrinking from him. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t bear it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Forgive me, if I have said anything to pain you; and oh, my darling!

-      remember it is my love that carries me away. I do love you, Edith. I wish

-      to God I could prove to you how much!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He took her hand in his; but she drew it forcibly from him, and, shrinking

-      still further away, entirely losing her self-control, sobbed silently.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t!&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;For pity&rsquo;s sake, be silent. You do not know what

-      you are saying. I am not fit to become your wife.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He moved a few steps from her, and waited until her wild, hysterical

-      sobbing should have ceased. She commanded herself quickly, as it the wild

-      outburst which she had not been able to control had terrified her. Then

-      she rose, and would have left the room, but the young man stopped her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Edith,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;surely you did not mean what you said just now, that

-      you are not fit to become my wife?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she replied quickly; &ldquo;I did mean it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She was glad that her face, was turned from him, and that the room was in

-      partial darkness. She was glad that she was able to steady her voice, and

-      to give a direct reply.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He did not answer; she felt he was waiting for her to speak on.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Even if two people love each other,&rdquo; she said, trembling, &ldquo;or only think

-      they do, which is too often the case, they have no right to thoughtlessly

-      contract that holy tie. There cannot be perfect happiness in this world

-      without perfect spiritual communion. I know&mdash;I feel sure&mdash;that

-      this does not exist between you and me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The young man flushed, and his brow contracted somewhat angrily.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Take time to think it over,&rdquo; he said quickly; &ldquo;this is not your own heart

-      that is speaking now. The seeds which that man, your clergyman, has been

-      sowing in your heart have borne fruit. Religion is changing your whole

-      nature. It is alienating you hopelessly from all to whom you are so dear;

-      it is making you unjust, cruelly unkind, to yourself, but doubly so to

-      others, under the shallow pretence that you are serving God!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She did not interrupt him; but when he ceased, she put out her hand and

-      said, quickly but firmly&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Good night.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Good night,&rdquo; he repeated. &ldquo;It is so early, surely you are not going

-      to-your room already? This is our last night together, remember.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am so tired,&rdquo; returned the girl, wearily. &ldquo;I must get a good night&rsquo;s

-      rest, since I am to start early in the morning.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And you will not say another word?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know that there is anything more that I can say.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You are angry with me, Edith. Before you go, say at least that you

-      forgive me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am not angry; indeed, I am glad you have spoken. I know now I should

-      never have come here. I know I must never come again.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      So, without another word, they parted. Edith went up to her room. Walter

-      sought his, and there he remained all the evening, sitting in the

-      darkness, pondering over the unaccountable change which had taken place in

-      the girl.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Yes, she was changed; but was it hopeless, and altogether unexpected?

-      Might she not, with gentle care, be freed from this hateful influence of

-      the Church? Walter believed that might be so. Already he seemed to see

-      light through the cloud, and to trace the secret of this man&rsquo;s influence

-      over her. Edith was imaginative and highly fanatical; he had appealed to

-      her imagination. Being a High Church clergyman, he had employed two

-      powerful agents&mdash;colour and form. He had scattered the shrine at

-      which she worshipped with soft and durable perfumes, and had set up sacred

-      symbols; and he had said, &ldquo;Kneel before these; cast down all your worldly

-      wishes and earthly affections.&rdquo; She, being intoxicated, as it were, had

-      yielded to the spell. It was part of his plan, thought Walter, that she

-      must neither marry nor form any other earthly tie; for was it not through

-      her, and such as her, that his beloved Church was able to sustain its full

-      prestige? The Church must reign supreme in her heart, as it had done in

-      that of many another vestal; it was at the altar alone that her gifts of

-      love and devotion must be burned. She must be sacrificed, as many others

-      had been before her, and the Church would stand.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      This was the young man&rsquo;s true view of the case. He believed it, for he had

-      learnt in his home to hate other worldliness; but though he fancied he saw

-      the nature of the discord, he could not as yet perceive the directest

-      means of cure.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The next morning, when Edith, looking very pale and weary, but still very

-      pretty in her simple travelling costume, came down to breakfast, she was a

-      little surprised to find Walter already there. His manner was kind and

-      considerate, as it had always been, and he made no reference whatever to

-      what had passed between them on the previous night. They sat and carried

-      on a constrained but polite conversation; but both were glad when it was

-      interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Hetherington. The old lady was filled

-      with genuine regret at her niece&rsquo;s sudden departure, and, while presiding

-      at the breakfast-table, was so busy laying down plans for her speedy

-      return that she did not notice that every morsel on Edith&rsquo;s plate remained

-      untouched, and that, while sipping her tea, her eyes wandered continually

-      towards the window, as if anxiously watching for the cab which was to take

-      her away. Walter noticed it with pain, and remained discreetly silent.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As soon as the cab arrived, he left the room, ostensibly to superintend

-      the removal of Ediths luggage, but in reality to be absent at the

-      leave-taking between his mother and his cousin.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He accompanied Edith to the station. It was merely an act of common

-      courtesy, to which she could make no possible objection. On the way there

-      was very little said on either side. She was silent from preoccupation,

-      and he feared to tread on dangerous ground. But when they were near their

-      parting, when Edith was comfortably seated in the train, and he stood by

-      the open carriage door, he ventured in a covert manner to refer to what

-      had passed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;The house will be brighter in wintertime,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and we shall have

-      more means of amusing you. You will come back at Christmas, Edith?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She started, dropped his hand, and drew herself from him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, I think not,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;it is always a busy time with us at

-      Christmas. There is much to be done in the church.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      This was their good-bye; for before he could say more the guard noisily

-      closed the carriage doors, and whistled shrilly. Mechanically Walter took

-      off his hat, and stood sadly watching the train as it moved away.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XVIII. CHURCH BELLS&mdash;AND A DISCORD.

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">E</span>dith was glad that

-      the next day was Sunday. She rose early, dressed hurriedly, and went for a

-      walk in the fresh morning air. She felt instinctively that she had a

-      battle to fight, and that all her resources must be brought into play to

-      gain her the victory. If her influence over the man was to continue, she

-      knew there was one way by which she could regain it. With such pale cheeks

-      and lacklustre eyes as she had brought with her from London, where, she

-      asked, would her chances be against Ellen Haldane&rsquo;s fresh country charms?

-      She must banish all painful thoughts for the present, and try to win back

-      the roses which he had caused to fade.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She walked for above an hour; and when she returned home, she went

-      straight into the garden to gather a little bouquet of flowers. Then she

-      went up to her room to dress for church. When she came down to breakfast,

-      she wore her prettiest costume, and the bunch of flowers was fastened at

-      her throat.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Her aunt had a headache, she said, and could not go to church. Edith was

-      not sorry; indeed, when the time came for her to set out, she was glad she

-      was alone.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She arrived at the church rather earlier than usual, nevertheless she

-      walked straight in, and no sooner had she crossed the threshold than she

-      obeyed a sudden impulse which seized her, and determined for that day at

-      least not to occupy her usual seat. She selected one which was some

-      distance from the pulpit, but from which she could command an excellent

-      view of the pew belonging to Foxglove Manor.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The congregation gathered, but the Haldane&rsquo;s pew was empty. Edith watched

-      it with feverish impatience. Presently, just as the tolling bell was about

-      to cease, she saw Mrs. Haldane enter and take her seat.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Two minutes later, Mr. Santley, clothed in his white, priestly robes,

-      ascended the steps of the reading-desk, and bent his beautiful head in

-      prayer. As he rose to his feet, Edith, who had been watching him in

-      extreme fascination, saw his gaze wandering round the church, and finally

-      fix upon the face of the mistress of Foxglove Manor. She saw, or thought

-      she saw, the lady&rsquo;s eyelids quiver and finally droop beneath that glance;

-      while the clergyman arose, like a sick man suddenly restored to health,

-      and began to read the lessons for the day.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      How that morning passed Edith scarcely knew. She remained like one in a

-      dream, mechanically going though the religious forms, but feeling as if

-      her heart&rsquo;s blood was slowly ebbing away. Of one thing only she was

-      conscious&mdash;that of all those upturned faces before him the clergyman

-      seemed to see but one, but that from this one face seemed to draw his

-      inspiration, as the earth draws life and light from the shining rays of

-      the sun.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At length the service was over, the congregation dispersed, and Edith

-      found herself walking up and down the quiet lanes alone, panting for air,

-      feeling sick at heart, and shivering through and through, though she stood

-      in the warm rays of sunlight. Go home she could not. She must see Mr.

-      Santley before she could face another human soul.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She turned, intending to go to the Vicarage, but when she was yet within

-      some distance of the house, she saw coming towards her the very man she

-      sought.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She paused, not knowing whether to feel glad or sorry. It was certainly

-      better than having to go to the Vicarage, yet now that the meeting was so

-      near, she shrank from it. She made a desperate effort to compose herself,

-      and paused, waiting for him. The clergyman was evidently lost in deep

-      thought, his head was bent, his eyes were fixed on the ground, and he was

-      quite close to Edith before he saw her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When their eyes met he paused, almost involuntarily, a momentary flush of

-      mingled annoyance and surprise passed over his face, then he recovered

-      himself, walked forward, and quietly extended his hand.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Miss Dove!&rdquo; he said, glancing nervously round. &ldquo;I had no idea you were at

-      home. How do you do?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      It had been agreed between them, long before, that so long as their secret

-      remained a secret, no warmer greeting than this must be exchanged between

-      them in public. When the proposition had been made, Edith had quietly

-      assented. What was it to her that Santley should bow his head with a

-      politeness even more frigid than he bestowed upon any one of his flock.

-      Had she not seen the burning light of love in his half-lowered eyes? and

-      had she not known that a few hours later she would feel his caressing arms

-      about her, and hear his rich, mellow voice whispering tenderly in her ear?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      But now all was changed. The frigid bow which had formerly been the

-      prologue, had rapidly developed into the play. There were no stolen

-      meetings now; no consoling whisperings. The clergyman had latterly become

-      alive to the risk of such indulgences, and had gradually allowed them to

-      cease; and Edith, receiving as her portion the cold bow and cold handshake

-      that every eye might have seen, had watched the love light gradually fade

-      from her hero&rsquo;s eyes.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      But she had never seen him so cold as to-day. When their eyes had met, she

-      had noticed the look of positive annoyance which had passed across his

-      face. It had soon fled, but when he spoke and extended his hand, his face

-      had assumed a look of cold severity.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Edith did not speak; the painful beating of her heart almost stifled her,

-      and her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. She extended her hand; the

-      cold, listless touch of his fingers throbbed through her like ice. The

-      clergyman saw her trouble, and again that look of impatient annoyance

-      passed across his face then he raised his brows in calm surprise.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What is the matter?&rdquo; he asked quickly. &ldquo;Has some domestic trouble caused

-      your sudden return home?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She withdrew her hand from his cold, lax fingers, and answered, &ldquo;No.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Then she turned and walked along in silence by his side.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The good man was annoyed, seriously annoyed. First at her sudden

-      appearance in the village, when he believed she was safely bestowed in

-      London for several weeks to come; next at the <i>rôle</i> she thought fit

-      to assume. He hated scenes at any time; just now he particularly wished to

-      avoid one. So he walked on in silence, until he could command his voice to

-      speak quietly; then he said, in the most careless manner possible&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;<i>When</i> did you return home?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Last night. I attended church this morning.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She looked at him quickly, to see what effect her words produced.

-      Apparently they produced none. The clergymans face remained as coldly

-      impassive as before; he raised his brows slightly as he replied.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Indeed! I did not see you there.&rdquo; Then, after a pause, he added, &ldquo;Your

-      return was very sudden, was it not? I thought you intended staying away

-      for some time.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I changed my mind. I thought you would have been glad to have me back

-      again.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Then, swept on by a wild impulse, which she could not possibly restrain,

-      she added slowly, but tremulously&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Charles, are you <i>sorry</i> I have come?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The clergyman started, flushed, then quickly recovered himself, as he

-      added&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Sorry, my dear Edith? What a question! Why of course I am not sorry.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then, why not say that you are glad? Why not let me know it? Don&rsquo;t you

-      see you are breaking my heart?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Santley paused, and looked at her. He did not flush this time, his face

-      grew white as marble, his eyes quite steel-like in their coldness. He had

-      dreaded a scene, but this was so very much worse than he had expected; for

-      by this time Edith had lost all self-control, and was sobbing violently.

-      His face hardened terribly. He must put an end once and for ever to such

-      unpleasant encounters.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Edith, have you lost your senses?&rdquo; he said; and the bitterness of his

-      tone was like putting a knife into the girl&rsquo;s heart. &ldquo;If you wish to

-      perform in such scenes as this, you could surely find some other time and

-      place than the public road and the broad daylight. If you have anything to

-      say to me, you must come to me again in private. At present I have no more

-      time which I can place at your service. I have business with Mrs. Haldane,

-      who is waiting for me at the Vicarage; and my duties at the church will

-      soon begin again.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He raised his hat, and would have moved away, but Edith laid her hand upon

-      his arm and forcibly detained him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Stop!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;One word! You shall not go. I must speak.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He turned upon her almost angrily; he attempted, but in vain, to shake off

-      her detaining hand.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Tell me,&rdquo; she cried; &ldquo;why are you going to meet Mrs. Haldane?&rdquo; Then,

-      before he could recover from his astonishment sufficiently to speak, she

-      added, &ldquo;You need not tell me, for I <i>know</i>. It is this woman who has

-      come between you and me. Oh, do you think I don&rsquo;t know that since she came

-      to the village you have been a changed man? What did I come home for?

-      Because I knew it was not right that you and she should be in the village

-      <i>alone</i>.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      This time the clergyman succeeded in shaking off her hand. The face which

-      he turned towards hers was almost livid in its pallor.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You forget yourself,&rdquo; he said, with a sternness which was even harder to

-      bear than bitter reproach. &ldquo;Well, I suppose you think you have a right to

-      insult me; but permit me to remind you that your right does not extend to

-      religious affairs, or to a lady who is the most esteemed member of my

-      congregation.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I have not insulted you, Charles; I am only warning you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You are very kind,&rdquo; he interposed, with a sneer, &ldquo;but I am, in no greater

-      need of your warning than is the lady. Until you can learn how to control

-      your own words and actions, it would be better for <i>you</i> that we

-      should not meet.&rdquo; Again he moved, as if about to leave her; again she put

-      forth her hand, and held him fast. The scene had become more violent than

-      she had intended. It was now too late to pause.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;One more word,&rdquo; she sobbed. &ldquo;Promise me that you will not see her, then I

-      will promise never to mention this subject again.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Promise you what? To discontinue all communications with Mrs. Haldane?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, yes; that is all. It is not much to ask you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It is much more than you have any right to ask. You have chosen to

-      connect my name dishonourably with a lady whom I esteem. Enough! I cannot

-      control your actions, but I mean to regulate my own. Good morning, Edith.

-      Since you have nothing more important to say to me, I suppose I am at

-      liberty to go?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He raised his hat and walked away, pausing a minute later to raise it

-      again, and to address some pleasant remark to a member of his

-      congregation, who happened at that moment to be coming along the road. It

-      was the sight of this stranger which prevented Edith from following, which

-      made her turn and walk with rapid steps towards her home. She felt cold

-      and sick and heart-broken, and she shrank from the sight of any human

-      face.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When she reached her home, she found her aunt, who had been surprised at

-      her protracted absence, gazing uneasily up and down the road. The sight of

-      the girl&rsquo;s pale, tear-stained face alarmed her, but Edith silenced her

-      inquiries by declaring that she had not been very well.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It was foolish of me, but I could not help crying at the service,&rdquo; she

-      said. &ldquo;Dear aunt, do not be anxious. I am better now, and only want rest.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Shall I send you up some dinner, darling?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No; nothing. I want to be alone&mdash;quite alone.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      So, with a weary, listless look upon her, the girl went up to her room,

-      and, having locked the door, she threw herself upon the bed, and cried as

-      if her heart were broken.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Meanwhile Mr. Santley went on his way, almost as much disturbed as Edith

-      herself. He was angry, terribly angry; for if scenes similar to the one

-      through which he had passed were allowed to continue, he anticipated a

-      storm of troubles in the future. But how to avoid them? What would be the

-      best and safest course to adopt? The good man was terribly perplexed. To

-      openly defy the girl might cause her, in her bitterness and pain, to

-      expose herself and him; which would certainly be awkward, since he wished,

-      above all things, to stand well with his congregation. And yet to adopt

-      any other course, he must at least pretend to subscribe to her conditions.

-      He must be content to renounce, or pretend to renounce, his intimacy with

-      Mrs. Haldane. The man of God was justly indignant.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Such a course, he knew, must not be thought of, and he resolved with pious

-      determination to continue Ellen Haldane&rsquo;s conversion, for which he was so

-      zealous and to leave matters between himself and Edith exactly as they

-      were.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He knew the girl&rsquo;s disposition. She would soon acknowledge her folly, and

-      make the first advances towards reconciliation. Well, then he would be

-      inclined to meet her half-way, but she must be the first to move. If, on

-      the other hand, she chose to take the unpleasant course of exposing him,

-      why, he would have but one alternative: he would simply deny her

-      statements, and who would believe her? It would be an unpleasant phase of

-      experience to have to pass through, and it would compel him to sacrifice a

-      fellow-creature.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Nevertheless, he acknowledged to himself, with the air of a Christian

-      martyr, that if she pushed him to extremities it would be necessary.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      After all, he hoped that Edith, shut up with her own grief, in the

-      solitude of her own room, would soon be brought to see the error of her

-      ways, and would make that first advance towards reconciliation which was

-      necessary for the peace of mind of both.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      But, whatever might happen in the future, Edith had succeeded for that day

-      at least in completely destroying the good mans peace of mind. His

-      agitation was so great that he was compelled to walk about the quiet lanes

-      until his tranquillity was somewhat restored. Then he returned to the

-      Vicarage, where Mrs. Haldane was comfortably seated with his sister, and

-      enjoyed her society until the hour of his labours returned.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When he entered the church that afternoon, all the congregation thought he

-      was looking more seraphic than ever. Many a young heart fluttered with

-      holiness, and many an eyelid drooped reverently, before the calm serenity

-      of his gaze. As he stood facing his people, he cast his eyes around the

-      church. Edith was not there.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He turned the leaves of his gold-clasped volume, and as his rich voice

-      filled the church, and the congregation rose, he gazed once more about

-      him. This time his cheek flushed slightly, and a soft sigh of relief and

-      happiness escaped his parted lips. Mrs. Haldane was again in her place,

-      calmly joining in the prayers.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      That afternoon the clergyman preached like one inspired; all were

-      impressed but none were cognizant of the cause. Though the clergyman&rsquo;s

-      eyes wandered continually around the church, he saw only one face, was

-      conscious only of one presence. So engrossed was he, and so wrapped up in

-      his fervour of admiration, that he did not notice what was going on around

-      him. Had he done so, he would have seen that there was another member of

-      the congregation besides Mrs. Haldane who attracted a certain amount of

-      interest. Seated in the gallery, calmly joining in the service and

-      watching the minister, was the foreign &ldquo;gentleman with the eyes.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XIX. HE IS BUT A LANDSCAPE PAINTER

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>fter Edith&rsquo;s

-      departure from London, Walter Hetherington thought long and deeply over

-      the mysterious change in his cousin. The more he thought, the more uneasy

-      he grew. Of one thing he felt tolerably sure&mdash;that the girl had got

-      into the hands of, a religious fanatic, who either consciously or

-      unconsciously was completely destroying himself, his happiness&mdash;in

-      this world at least. She was fairly possessed by the fever of other

-      worldliness, he said to himself, and if left alone she would, like many

-      others before her, probably end her days in a mad house.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Having arrived at this enlightened conclusion, which was chiefly based on

-      what Edith had herself told him, Walter determined that she should not be

-      left alone. What would be more rational, he said to himself, than that he

-      should pack up his sketching paraphernalia and pay a short visit to the

-      picturesque little village where his aunt and cousin lived? Surely Edith

-      would be glad to see him, and while he remained to watch over her, his

-      time would not be entirely lost.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When he told his mother of his determination to revisit the country, the

-      old lady was unfeignedly glad. She suspected, from the unaccountable

-      sudden departure of the girl, that the two young people had had a quarrel,

-      and she was glad to see her son was magnanimous enough to make the first

-      advances towards reconciliation. So she helped him to put a few things

-      together, and on the spur of the moment he started off.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He had written neither to his cousin nor aunt to tell them of his coming.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &mdash;He had intended sending a telegram from the station, but at the

-      last moment he changed his mind, and as he sat in the train which was

-      rapidly whirling him onward, he began to ask himself whether it would be

-      judicious of him to go to his aunt&rsquo;s house at all. To be sure, he had

-      always made it his head-quarters; but now things were changed. Edith had

-      left his mother&rsquo;s house to avoid <i>him</i>; would it be fair to either of

-      them that he should become his aunt&rsquo;s guest? By living in the house he

-      would force from her a communication which might be very grudgingly given,

-      and at the same time his lips must be inevitably sealed. He finally

-      decided that, during the visit at least, it would be better for every one

-      that he should stay at the inn.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      So on arriving at the station he drove to the inn, secured at a cheap

-      price a couple of cosy rooms, and determined to delay calling upon his

-      relations until the following day.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The next day was fine, a fit day for an artist to lounge, dream, perhaps

-      work. Walter hung about the inn till midday; then he took his sketch-book

-      under his arm, and strolled forth in the direction of his aunt&rsquo;s cottage.

-      When he reached the door, and was about to knock, it was suddenly opened

-      by Edith, dressed in walking costume.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      On coming thus unexpectedly face to face with her cousin, she looked

-      manifestly angry.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Walter, you here?&rdquo; she said coldly; then she added quickly, &ldquo;Is anything

-      the matter at home?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Nothing whatever,&rdquo; said Walter, quietly giving his hand, and taking no

-      notice whatever of the irritation so plainly visible on her face. &ldquo;I got

-      tired of London, that was all, and thought a few days in the country might

-      do me good. I am not going to bore <i>you</i>. I have brought my working

-      tools down with me, and mean to take some sketches back.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But where is your luggage?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Down at the inn.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;At the inn?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes; I had it taken direct there last night. I was fortunate enough, too,

-      to secure rooms&mdash;a capital little parlour fit for a studio, and a

-      bedroom leading out of it. I shall be able to do the host, and entertain

-      you, if you&rsquo;ll come.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You are going to stay at the inn?&rdquo; said Edith. &ldquo;You always stayed with <i>us</i>

-      before!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Of course I did; but I am not going to be so inconsiderate as to plant

-      myself upon you <i>now</i>.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He laid the slightest possible stress upon the &ldquo;now,&rdquo; and Edith

-      understood; nevertheless, she deemed it prudent to affect ignorance and

-      read a different meaning in his words. She murmured something about being

-      very much occupied, and having little time to attend to visitors; then led

-      the way across the hall to their sitting-room, and brought him into the

-      presence of his aunt.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Mrs. Russell welcomed him cordially, but when she heard of his domestic

-      arrangements, her face went very blank indeed. She used every argument in

-      her power to persuade the young man to change his mind, and to have his

-      luggage brought up to the cottage. Walter, eager to accept her kindness,

-      was listening for one word from Edith. It never came, and he expressed his

-      intention to remain at the inn.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      But, although he abided by his former decision and remained <i>en garçon</i>

-      at the inn, a very great part of his time was spent at the cottage. The

-      old lady, anxious to atone for the inhospitable behaviour of her niece,

-      altered all her household arrangements to suit the erratic habits of the

-      young painter. The heavy midday meal was replaced by a light luncheon;

-      while for the light supper at six was substituted a substantial dinner, to

-      which Walter was always bidden. On the afternoon of that day, when the

-      young man had first made his appearance at the cottage, a rather

-      unpleasant interview had taken place between the aunt and niece, almost

-      the first which had come to ruffle the peaceful course of their evenly

-      flowing lines. The old lady had been indignant at the coolness of Edith&rsquo;s

-      reception, and had accused the girl of inhospitality and ingratitude;

-      while Edith had coolly given it as her opinion that the young man was much

-      better located elsewhere.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It is a tax to have a visitor always in the house, aunt,&rdquo; said Edith,

-      quietly; &ldquo;and&mdash;and I haven&rsquo;t the strength to bear it, I think.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Mrs. Russell looked up, and was surprised to find that the girl, after

-      bearing her reproaches so mildly, was now actually crying. She noted

-      again, too, with a start of shocked surprise how sadly she had changed.

-      The fresh, bright beauty which had once charmed every eye had gone,

-      leaving scarcely a trace behind it, and the face was pale, careworn, and

-      sad. She got up and kissed her, and that silent caress did more than a

-      dozen reproaches. It made Edith hurriedly leave the room, to cast herself,

-      crying bitterly, upon the bed, while Mrs. Russell sat down and wrote a

-      note to Walter.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You shall have your own way about staying at the inn,&rdquo; she wrote, &ldquo;and

-      you shall also have every possible hour of the day that you can make use

-      of for your work; but surely you can spare your evenings for us. I have

-      arranged to dine every day at six, and I beg of you, for Edith&rsquo;s sake, to

-      make one of the party. Dear Edith is far from well, and sadly changing.

-      She sees so few people, and the house is dull. Dear Walter, come often,

-      for her sake if not for mine.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Thus it happened that every night, when the little dining-room was laid

-      out for dinner, Walter made his appearance at the cottage door, and that

-      during those evening hours the family party was increased to three.

-      Sometimes they left the dinner-table to lounge in the pretty little

-      drawing-room, where Walter was permitted to smoke his cigar, while the old

-      lady worked at wool-work, and Edith played to them in the slowly gathering

-      darkness. Sometimes they strolled out on to the lawn, and had the tea

-      brought out, and laughed and chatted while they watched the stars appear

-      one by one in the heavens. Was it fancy, or since these social evenings

-      commenced was Edith really changed&rsquo; for the better? Walter fancied that

-      her eye was brighter, her cheek less pale, and that her manner towards

-      himself was sometimes very tender, as if she wished in a measure to atone

-      for her past coldness. This was particularly noticeable one night when the

-      two sat alone in the drawing-room.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Mrs. Russell, murmuring something about household affairs, had left them

-      together. Walter was reclining in an armchair, smoking his cigar and

-      watching his cousin, who was busily engaged embroidering crosses upon a

-      handsome altar-cloth, intended for the decoration of the church.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;These have been pleasant evenings,&rdquo; he said&mdash;&ldquo;pleasant for me, that

-      is. I shall be sorry enough when they come to an end.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Edith looked up and smiled sadly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;If we always had pleasure it would become a pain,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Though we

-      rebel against pain and suffering, it is, after all, a very great boon to

-      the world.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Humph! Perhaps so, if it were better distributed. What about the poor

-      creatures whose portion is only pain?&mdash;who, to put it vulgarly, get

-      all the kicks, and none of the halfpence?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;In this world, you should have said, Walter. Let us hope their measure of

-      happiness will be greater in the world that is to come.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Walter was silent. The conversation had taken precisely the turn which he

-      would have avoided, and he was wondering how to bring it to the subject

-      which was for ever uppermost in his mind. For a time he remained in a

-      brown study. Edith stitched on. Then he rose, took a few turns about the

-      room, and stopped near to her chair.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Edith,&rdquo; he said quietly, &ldquo;do you know why I came down here?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Something in his tone rather than his words made her start and flush

-      painfully. She did not raise her eyes or cease her work. Before she could

-      answer, he had taken her hand.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I came for <i>you</i>, Edith,&rdquo; he continued passionately. &ldquo;Listen to me,

-      my darling. Do not answer hastily, if you cannot give me a decided answer.

-      At least let me hope.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Decidedly yet tremblingly the girl put his hands from her, and half rose

-      from her seat. His words had frozen her to ice again.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why <i>did</i> you come here?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Do you call it manly or kind to

-      persecute me? I tell you I shall never marry.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      As she spoke her eye fell upon the altar-cloth, which she held in her

-      hand: Walter saw the look, and as he was walking back to the inn that

-      night it recurred to his mind again. The altar-cloth! There was the symbol

-      of the thing which had come between them&mdash;which was blighting his

-      life and hers. Edith was changing; but she was not utterly changed. He

-      resolved to do the only thing which now remained to be done. He determined

-      to appeal to her spiritual adviser.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      All night his mind was filled with this idea; it troubled his sleeping as

-      well as his waking moments, and when he rose in the morning it was the one

-      thing which possessed him. Now, he had never seen the clergyman, but he

-      had pictured him as a middle-aged, benevolent-looking man, perhaps with

-      spectacles; a gentle fanatic in religion, willing, through the very

-      bigotry of his nature, to sacrifice everything for the good of the Church,

-      but still, perhaps, amiable. He might be open to reason, and an appeal

-      made directly to him might be the means of putting an end to all the

-      trouble.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Breakfast over, the young man issued from the inn, and strolled

-      deliberately through the village in the direction of the Vicarage. It was

-      early in the day to make a call, so he walked very slowly, meditating as

-      he went on the nature of his errand; and the course he was about to take,

-      after what had passed between him and his cousin, was, perhaps, a little

-      unwarrantable, and Edith might be inclined to resent it if she knew. But

-      then, he reflected, she need never know. Mr. Santley would surely grant

-      him the favour of keeping the matter a secret; and afterwards, when the

-      shadow of the Church had ceased to darken her life, and she was happy with

-      him in her married home, she would be glad to hear that it was he who had

-      saved her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      These were the kind of rose-coloured visions which filled his brain as he

-      walked on towards the Vicarage, and by the time he had reached the hall

-      door and pulled the bell, he had even converted Mr. Santley into the good

-      fairy of the tale, or rather a sort of Father Christmas, in a surplice,

-      smiling benevolently upon them and pairing their hands. A trim little

-      servant came to the door, and, in answer to his inquiries, informed him

-      that Mr. Santley was not at home. He was expected in immediately, however,

-      if the gentleman would like to wait.. Yes; Walter would wait. So he

-      followed the little maid across the hall, into a somewhat chilly but

-      sufficiently gorgeous room, which was reserved solely for the comfort and

-      convenience of Mr. Santley&rsquo;s guests. As Walter sank down into an

-      easy-chair, the arms of which seemed to enfold him in a close embrace, and

-      looked about the room, he acknowledged that Mr. Santley at least did not

-      give all his substance to the poor. Here at least there was no appearance

-      of penury, or of sackcloth and ashes; all was comfortable and luxurious in

-      the extreme. He walked about the room; examined the books upon the tables,

-      which were all works of education, elegantly bound; noticed the engravings

-      on the walls&mdash;one or two of Raphael&rsquo;s Madonnas (coloured copies), and

-      an old engraving after Andrea del Sarto. Mr. Santley did not come. He rang

-      the bell, gave the little maid his card, told her he would call again, and

-      left the Vicarage.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      This time he walked in the direction of the schoolhouse. He had his

-      sketchbook under his arm, and in it a half-finished sketch of the

-      schoolmistress&rsquo;s picturesque home. He would fill up his spare time by

-      adding a few touches to the sketch before he returned to the Vicarage.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In this matter fortune favoured him. It being Saturday afternoon, there

-      was no school, and the schoolmistress was leaning in a listless attitude

-      upon the low trellised gate. She welcomed the young painter with a nod and

-      a bright smile, and readily assented to his proposition that she should

-      stand for the figure in the picture. He took out his book and set to work.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Dora meanwhile chatted and laughed to make the time pass pleasantly, and

-      sometimes, in answer to an invitation from him, she would run round the

-      easel to take a peep at the figure of herself, which was gradually growing

-      under his hand. At last their pleasant interview was brought to an end.

-      Walter remembered the appointment which this chattering lady had made him

-      forget. He put up his sketching materials, and prepared to take his leave.

-      Then Dora stopped him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Surely, Mr. Hetherington, you will do me one favour,&rdquo; she said: &ldquo;you will

-      honour me by stepping for a moment into the cottage which you have

-      transferred so beautifully to paper. I have some cream and milk, some

-      fresh strawberries from our garden, if that is any inducement to you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The invitation was tempting. Nevertheless, Walter, while wishing to

-      accept, was about to refuse, pleading an engagement at the Vicarage when

-      another voice broke in&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Good day, Miss Greatheart!&rdquo; it said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The schoolmistress smiled, made a prim curtsey, and answered, &ldquo;Good day,

-      sir!&rdquo; Then she waited to see if her visitor had anything more to say.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The new arrival was a man, and Walter, who was looking at him, thought he

-      was the handsomest man he had ever seen in his life. He was dressed as a

-      clergyman, but the cut of his garments-was elegant and eminently becoming.

-      As his eye fell upon Walter he raised his hat, and discovered a head

-      beautifully shaped and slightly thinning at the temples. Walter remained

-      fascinated, staring at the man, who moved here and there with easy grace,

-      and whose face grew singularly handsome with every varying expression

-      which flitted across it.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He had not much to say to the schoolmistress; and as he moved away his hat

-      was again swept off to Walter, and the clergyman&rsquo;s eyes rested upon him

-      for a moment with a look one might love to paint in the eyes of a saint.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Walter turned to Miss Greatheart.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;A handsome fellow,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;&mdash;a very handsome fellow; and a

-      clergyman, I see, by his dress. Who is he? One of Mr. Santley&rsquo;s curates, I

-      suppose?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The schoolmistress stared at him for a moment in amazement.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;One of Mr. Santley&rsquo;s curates!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Why, my dear sir, that is our

-      vicar himself!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XX. IN THE GLOAMING.

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> t was now Walters

-      turn to look amazed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That Mr. Santley!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Why, he is quite a young man!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Of course he is&mdash;and handsome as good, and good as handsome. But

-      won&rsquo;t you come in, Mr. Hetherington, and have some refreshment? It is two

-      hours quite since you opened out your sketch-book at the gate!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      This time Walter accepted her invitation, and followed her into the quaint

-      little parlour, where most of her days were spent. The little maid who

-      attended to the house had got a holiday with the children, and Dora was

-      left to attend to herself that day. Walter was glad of it, since he was

-      left free to sit by the window and follow the train of his thoughts, while

-      Dora busied herself spreading the snowy cloth upon the table, and setting

-      forth her simple fare. When it was ready, he came to the table and ate

-      some strawberries and drank some milk, thinking all the while of Mr.

-      Santley. Presently he spoke of him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You have known Mr. Santley some time, Miss Greatheart?&rdquo; he said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I was schoolmistress here when he came.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;He is a very good man, you said?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, indeed. But it stands to reason that a man with Mr. Santley&rsquo;s gifts

-      must be very good indeed not to get spoiled. In justice to at least half

-      of his congregation, he ought to marry.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why, pray?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why? If he had arrived here with a wife, many a young girl in the village

-      would have been saved a severe heartache. He is a prize in the matrimonial

-      lottery well worth striving for. He is idolized by every female in the

-      village. Now, it is certain he cannot marry them all, and on the day when

-      the happy one is chosen, fancy the hearts that will break!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yours amongst the number?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, sir; I am happy to say I am free. But I take no credit to myself on

-      that account. If I had been idle like some of the young ladies here, there

-      might have been another victim added to the list; but I have so much to do

-      in the school, I have no time to think about the vicar,&rdquo; she added. &ldquo;Have

-      you heard him preach, Mr. Hetherington?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, not yet.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ah, you must go to the church tomorrow. He speaks magnificently, and

-      looks a picture in his robes; besides, his sister, Miss Santley, told me

-      he will wear for the first time to-morrow a new surplice and a magnificent

-      embroidered band, which has been worked for him by Miss Dove!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      At the mention of his cousin&rsquo;s name Walter felt his face flush and his

-      heart leap; but he made no direct reply. He went on eating his

-      strawberries, and turned his face to the open window, as he said&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What have you made for him, Miss Greatheart?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I? Oh, nothing! He has so many beautiful presents from the young ladies

-      in the village that he has no need of them from me, even if I had the time

-      to make them, which I have not; all day I am teaching in the school, and

-      all the evening I am busy preparing lessons for the following day.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Have you always lived here?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not always. My mother was a prison matron at Preston, and we lived

-      together until she died, several years ago; then, through the influence of

-      some friends, I got this place, and have lived here ever since!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Working and striving,&rdquo; added Walter; &ldquo;finding pleasure in things which to

-      some would mean only trouble and irritation. During the holidays do you

-      ever come to London, Miss Greatheart?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No; I generally remain here.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;From choice?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not at all. I should like a change; but then, to go alone to a city where

-      you have no friends, and to parade crowded streets alone, is a holiday

-      which I should not enjoy.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Walter rose to go.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You will come back and finish the sketch on Monday, perhaps?&rdquo; said Dora.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I shall be glad to; I should like, above all, to finish the figure

-      leaning on the gate.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then you must come in the evening. I promise to give you an hour after

-      school hours.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Then Walter shook hands with her and left, taking the way to the inn

-      instead of to the Vicarage. He would make no appeal to the clergyman. The

-      sight of Mr. Santley, so different to the benevolent, elderly gentleman of

-      his imagination, had decided him on that point; it had also brought with

-      it other trouble, for it threw an entirely new light on Edith&rsquo;s religious

-      fervour.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Was it, then, the man or the church, infatuation or fanaticism? He asked

-      himself the question for the first time. Was Edith among the mass of

-      simple girls who were breaking their hearts for his sake? Probably. It

-      remained now for him to watch her, and ascertain the truth.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He went up to the cottage that evening, and regarded Edith with quite a

-      new light in his eyes. She also seemed changed. Her manner was restless

-      and ill at ease; her cheek was flushed. All through the dinner she

-      scarcely touched any food, but glanced furtively at her aunt and cousin.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When the dinner was over, they all retired to the drawing-room as usual.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Here Ediths restlessness asserted itself more strongly. Instead of sitting

-      quietly to her work, as was her usual custom, she flitted restlessly about

-      the room. Presently she declared that she had a terrible headache, and

-      wished her cousin &ldquo;good night.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I have been trying to bear it,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;but it gets worse instead of

-      better. You will excuse me for to-night, Walter, will you not?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      As he took her hand and held it for a moment in his, he felt that it was

-      trembling and very hot. He scarcely believed in the headache, but he

-      deemed silence the most prudent course; so he wished her &ldquo;good night&rdquo;

-       without more ado.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Her aunt rose to go with her to her room, but permission to do so was

-      firmly refused.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      So she went. Mrs. Russell sat down again to her wool-work, and Walter

-      subsided into his chair.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      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&mdash;if, indeed, it

-      was the man, and not religion, which held the girl so entranced&mdash;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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      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&mdash;the

-      close neighbourhood of two figures in earnest conversation&mdash;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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Yes, the voice was Ediths.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Having wished her aunt and cousin &ldquo;good night,&rdquo; 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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The letter was as follows:&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My dear Miss Dove,

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am very sorry to hear that you have been suffering. You will find what

-      you require at Dr. Spruce&rsquo;s surgery. You are right about the time&mdash;nine

-      o&rsquo;clock will do very well.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yours faithfully,

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Charles Santley.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      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 &ldquo;good

-      night.&rdquo; 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&mdash;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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      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&mdash;which

-      she knew, by old experience, well.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A week&rsquo;s reflection, and the frequent sight of Edith&rsquo;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 <i>should</i> 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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Is it you, Edith? Quick! Is it you?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      His quick ear had caught the rustle of her dress on the grass. Even as the

-      words left his lips came the eager answer.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, Charles; I have come!&rdquo; And the girl, forgetting all their quarrels,

-      leapt with a glad cry into his arms.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      For a time no words were spoken. After that one cry of joy, Edith had laid

-      her head upon his shoulder and sobbed as if her heart would break. At this

-      manifestation of hysteria, Santley was not altogether pleased; but he

-      could say nothing, so he clasped his arms firmly about her, and tried to

-      soothe her sorrow. When at last Edith lifted her head from his shoulder he

-      kissed her lips, and whispered to her so gently that the girl&rsquo;s heart beat

-      as gladly as it had done the first day that words like these had been

-      spoken.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;There, there,&rdquo; said the good man, kissing her again, and patting her head

-      like that of a spoilt child. &ldquo;You are better now, my darling; and remember

-      you must not quarrel with me again. You were breaking your little heart

-      for nothing at all.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Part of the girls emotion had communicated itself to him; and for the time

-      being, while he stood there holding her to him, feeling her breath upon

-      her cheek, her clinging arms about his neck, he felt almost as

-      passionately disposed as he had done the first day that he told her of his

-      love. As for Edith, a serene happiness and peace seemed to enter into her

-      soul. They stood thus for some time, exchanging whispered words and fond

-      embraces; then the clergyman told her she had better go. A spot or two of

-      rain had fallen, and the sky was clouding over as if for a storm.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Will you play the organ to-morrow, Edith?&rdquo; he asked, as they moved away

-      together.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, if you wish it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I do wish it, Edith; for when you are playing, it seems as if you were

-      helping me with my work.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Sweet words! She said nothing, but the hand which lay in his pressed his

-      fondly, and he knew that she was pleased.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And will you come to the Vicarage to-morrow afternoon, and have tea with

-      us? I shall be so glad if you will!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He did not add that his sister, wondering all the week at Edith&rsquo;s

-      non-appearance, had threatened repeatedly to call at the cottage, when she

-      would doubtless have elicited something of the truth.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, I cannot come!&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;my cousin, Walter Hetherington, is staying

-      in the village, and so long as he remains here he is to spend the evenings

-      with us. As to-morrow is Sunday, and no work can be done, my aunt has

-      invited him up for the day.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Santley was relieved, very much relieved indeed. He could now give his

-      sister a tangible reason for Edith&rsquo;s absence from the Vicarage, while he

-      himself would be perfectly free to spend the afternoon with Mrs. Haldane.

-      He tried, to suppress the delight which he could not help feeling, and

-      said quietly, &ldquo;Let us hope the young man will make a speedy departure, if

-      he means to monopolize you so much. But that reminds me, Edith, a young

-      man, a Mr. Walter Hetherington, called upon me to-day and left his card. I

-      suppose it is the same?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Of course it is,&rdquo; returned Edith. &ldquo;But what could he want with <i>you?</i>&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t in the least know. Nothing of very great importance, I suppose,

-      since he promised to call again, and never reappeared.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The clergyman paused.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      They had come now to within a short distance of Edith&rsquo;s home. Again, after

-      a furtive look round, he clasped her fondly to him, pressed her lips, and

-      murmured, &ldquo;Good night, my Edith!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Good night,&rdquo; returned the girl, withdrawing herself reluctantly from his

-      embrace. &ldquo;Oh, I am so happy now! You were quite right, dear; another week

-      like the last would have broken my heart!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Thus they parted&mdash;Edith, happy as a child, creeping quickly to the

-      cottage; the good man smiling celestially, and well pleased to have made

-      everything comfortable at little personal inconvenience, walking back to

-      his holy hearth, and thinking of his Sunday sermon.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XXI. IN THE VICARAGE PARLOUR.

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>early 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s home.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      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&mdash;yet his eyes had assured him of the blackness

-      and impurity of her soul. Disappointment was turning his heart to gall.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At last the service was ended: the congregation streamed forth, Walter

-      amongst the rest. The crush was so great he could hardly get along&mdash;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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I saw you in church,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and thought you looked dreadfully pale.

-      Are you not well, Walter?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      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&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I did not see <i>you</i> in church.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, you would not. I was in the organ-room. It is my Sunday for playing,

-      you remember!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      To this he made no reply. He was wondering how it was that Edith could

-      manage so effectually to play such a double part. He expected at least a

-      downcast eye, and a blush of guilt upon her cheek; with this he might have

-      been tolerably satisfied. But Edith&rsquo;s face looked brighter than it had

-      done for many a day.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I forgot to ask you,&rdquo; he said suddenly, &ldquo;if your headache was better.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My headache?&rdquo; she replied. She had been so engrossed with happy thoughts

-      at the reconciliation, that the question took her completely by surprise.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ah yes,&rdquo; she added, suddenly recollecting herself; &ldquo;it is so much better,

-      that I had quite forgotten it. You see what a good night&rsquo;s rest will do!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Walter uttered an impatient sigh, and turned on his heel; while Edith

-      added&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You are coming up to dine with us to-day, you know. Shall we walk

-      together?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am not coming!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not coming? I thought&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, I did accept your aunt&rsquo;s invitation; but I feel upset to-day, and am

-      not fit company for anyone. Will you make my excuses at home?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, certainly I will; and I hope that to-morrow you will be so much

-      better. Good-bye.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She shook hands with him, and tripped away.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      For a time Walter made no attempt to move, but gazed after her with eyes

-      full of sadness and despair. Although he said to himself that henceforth

-      Edith must be nothing to him, he felt pained at the curtness with which

-      she could dismiss him. He had noticed that she had never once attempted to

-      persuade him to alter his decision; indeed, she had not been able to hide

-      from him her delight at hearing it, and he felt very bitter.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He turned from the church, walked away, and, after strolling about for

-      some time he knew not whither, he raised his head and found himself quite

-      close to the schoolmistress&rsquo;s cottage. Dora stood in the doorway,

-      surrounded by her flowers.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She came forward when she saw him, and, after giving him a bright smile

-      and a warm handshake, stood by the gate and continued to talk. She was a

-      wise little woman, and knew exactly what to say and what to leave unsaid;

-      she had been a witness of the interview between the cousins in the

-      churchyard that morning, and her woman&rsquo;s instinct had divined something of

-      the true state of things. So she chatted pleasantly to the young man, and

-      took no notice whatever of his pale cheek and peculiarity of manner; and

-      when he said suddenly, &ldquo;Are you not going to ask me in to-day, Miss

-      Greatheart?&rdquo; she threw open the gate at once, and said that she was sadly

-      neglectful and inhospitable, and that if Mr. Hetherington would like to

-      come in, he would be more than welcome. So he followed her again into the

-      quaint little parlour, and again took his seat by the open window, to gaze

-      with strange, meditative eyes upon the little garden where the sun was

-      shining. It was a ragged little garden enough, and by no means well cared

-      for, since Dora was not rich enough to pay for labour, like her more

-      fortunate neighbours in the village.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      During her leisure hours she worked among the flower-beds until her plump

-      hands ached again; but, after all, her leisure hours were very few, and

-      the grass and weeds grew so quickly. Walter saw that the grass was many

-      inches too long, and that it was scattered thickly with withered

-      rose-leaves; that here and there a rose tree was sadly in want of the

-      pruning knife. But that did not make the scent of the flowers any the less

-      delicious; nor did it take from the quiet beauty of their place. There was

-      plenty of light and colour everywhere, and there was beauty.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      While looking at the garden, Walter began to think of the gardens mistress&mdash;quiet

-      little Dora, living so contented among her children; and in the winter

-      still living here alone, when the flowers had faded, when withered

-      rose-leaves were scattered profusely on the grass, and the leafless

-      branches of the trees bent before the biting breath of the bitter winter

-      wind. It was a pretty picture of Dora&mdash;he loved it as we love the

-      creatures of our imagination; it seemed to make Dora belong to him,

-      artistically, as it were, and bring him consolation. Then his reflections

-      took another turn, and he began, for the first time, to think it strange

-      that the little woman should be so much alone.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He said something of this to Dora; and she laughed and blushed, and

-      answered frankly enough.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, I am a good deal alone. You see, I am in an equivocal position. I am

-      too good for the servants, and not good enough for their mistresses. I am

-      only the governess!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;At any rate,&rdquo; said Walter, &ldquo;you have contrived to brighten up what would

-      otherwise have been a very cheerless visit. As a token of my gratitude,

-      will you accept a little present from me?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I want no present, sir; your friendly words are quite enough.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Nonsense! I should like to give you some of the sketches I have made of

-      the village.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;To me! give them to me?&rdquo; said Dora, with wide-open eyes. &ldquo;Why, Mr.

-      Hetherington, I thought you wanted them to&mdash;to&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;To&mdash;what?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well, to remind you of this visit!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Perhaps when I began them I had some notion of that kind in my head; we

-      are all fools sometimes, you know. But I have changed my mind; I don&rsquo;t

-      want to be reminded of this visit. Yes, I shall give you the sketches&mdash;that

-      is to say, if you will accept them; and when I have taken my departure&mdash;and

-      I shall do so soon&mdash;I shall try to forget that such a village as

-      Omberley ever existed at all.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And the people,&rdquo; said Dora; &ldquo;of course you will try to forget the

-      people?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That is the first thing I shall try to do!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We are most of us selfish in our grief, and Walter was no exception to the

-      rule. Mortified and suffering himself, it never once entered his head that

-      he might be unpolite, and even rude, to another. But the knife entered

-      Dora&rsquo;s little heart, and made her wince. She had been happy in the

-      knowledge that she had met a fellow-creature who could treat her exactly

-      as an equal&mdash;a man whom she could call a friend; and lo! when her

-      interest is strongest, when she has been telling herself that the memory

-      of the few days which he has brightened for ever will linger in her memory

-      and never die, he came to tell her that his first effort would be to

-      forget the place&mdash;and <i>her</i>.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I will take the pictures, if you like, Mr. Hetherington, but merely as a

-      loan. You will change your mind again.. I am convinced that some day you

-      will ask me for them back again, and when you do they shall certainly be

-      yours. But the sketch of the cottage&mdash;is it finished already?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;The sketch of the cottage? Oh, I should like to keep <i>that</i>. It

-      contains the picture of a lady whom I should certainly not like to

-      forget.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Then, while the glad light danced in Dora&rsquo;s eyes again, he rose and took

-      her hand, as he said&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Good-bye, Miss Greatheart. When I said I should forget the village and

-      the people I was wrong. Your kindness and hospitality I shall always

-      remember.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      So he crossed the threshold of the happy little schoolhouse, to stroll out

-      again into the sunshine; and again he thought very bitterly of the woman

-      who had effectually taken all the sunshine from his life.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He need not have thought so bitterly of her. If she had wounded him she

-      was receiving her punishment.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Having left Walter in the churchyard, Edith flew home like one walking on

-      air. She had accepted his decision gleefully, never attempting to alter it

-      by word or look, for she was thinking all the time of the invitation she

-      had received from Mr. Santley, and which had cost her such a pang to

-      refuse. Walter&rsquo;s sudden determination left her free&mdash;free to spend a

-      few hours in the company of the man who was more to her than the whole

-      world. Lighthearted and happy, she hurried home, gave Walter&rsquo;s message to

-      her aunt, and then sat down and made a very hearty meal. After it was

-      over, and a reasonable time had elapsed, she again put on her hat, and

-      told her aunt she was going down to the Vicarage.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I shan&rsquo;t be back till late, aunt,&rdquo; she added, &ldquo;for, as I have to go to

-      the Vicarage, I may as well walk to evening service with Miss Santley. If

-      Walter changes his mind and comes, you will look after him well, won&rsquo;t

-      you?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      And Mrs. Russell, promising implicit obedience, kissed her niece fondly,

-      and watched her go down the road. On reaching the Vicarage, Edith was

-      admitted at once. There was no necessity to take her card and keep her

-      waiting while she ascertained if master or mistress was at home. She was

-      known to the servants as a visitor who was always welcome&mdash;at any

-      rate to the mistress of the house. So, without any preamble at all, she

-      was shown into the sitting-room, and into the presence of Miss Santley.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The room was as luxuriously furnished as any in the Vicarage, and

-      charmingly decorated with the choicest of hothouse flowers. The lady sat

-      in a low wicker chair, with a book in her hand, and at her elbow a little

-      gipsy table, holding a tea-service of Dresden china. The opening of the

-      door disturbed the lady. She let her book fall upon her knee, and looked

-      up dreamily; but the moment her eye fell upon Edith she rose, smiling

-      brightly, gave the girl both her hands, and kissed her fondly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My dear Edith, I am so glad!&rdquo; she exclaimed; and there was a ring of

-      genuine welcome in her voice. &ldquo;Why, you are a perfect stranger.&mdash;Jane,

-      bring a cup for Miss Dove.&mdash;Now, dear, select your chair, take off

-      your hat, and make yourself comfortable.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Edith did as she was bidden. She placed her hat on one of the many little

-      tables with which the room abounded, stood before one of the glasses for a

-      moment to rectify any disarrangement of hair and costume; then she drew

-      forth a little wicker chair similar to that occupied by her hostess, and

-      sat down. By this time the teapot was brought in, and the tea poured, so

-      Edith sat and sipped it, talking and laughing meanwhile like a happy

-      child.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well, dear,&rdquo; said Miss Santley, &ldquo;and what have you been doing with

-      yourself all the week? Charles tells me you have a cousin in the village,

-      who completely monopolizes you. By the way, he told me that he had tried

-      to persuade you to come to tea to-day, but that you had positively

-      refused. That could not have been true.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, it was true,&rdquo; returned Edith. &ldquo;I did refuse when he asked me,

-      because I thought I could not come. I thought my cousin would dine with us

-      as usual; but I met him at church this morning, and he said he was rather

-      unwell and could not come. So I thought it would not matter if I came

-      after all.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Matter! My dear, I am delighted.&rdquo; And so, having thus satisfactorily

-      arranged matters, the two sat chatting to their hearts&rsquo; content.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was very pleasant, exceedingly pleasant&mdash;at any other time Edith

-      would have enjoyed it hugely; but as the hands of the bronze clock on the

-      chimneypiece travelled so quickly round, she began to grow uneasy, and to

-      wonder at the protracted absence of her lover. Miss Santley was a very

-      pleasant person indeed, and Edith was very fond of her; but it had been a

-      stronger inducement than Miss Santley that had brought her to the Vicarage

-      that afternoon. Santley must know she was in the house, thought Edith; it

-      was strange he did not come.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Suddenly Miss Santley glanced at the clock. In a moment she was on her

-      feet.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My dear,&rdquo; she exclaimed, &ldquo;how the time has flown! Do you play again

-      to-night?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The lady nodded.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well walk to church together, dear,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Amuse yourself by looking

-      at the books, while I run away to get my bonnet and mantle on.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Ere the lady had reached the door of the room, Edith spoke. Prolonged

-      disappointment had given her courage.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Mr. Santley is busy, I suppose?&rdquo; she said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Mr. Santley&mdash;Charles? Oh, my dear, he&rsquo;s not at home!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not at home?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;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

-      &lsquo;How do you do&rsquo;? If he had known you had been coming, of course he would

-      have stayed in; but he didn&rsquo;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.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Miss Santley was near the door. The moment she had finished speaking she

-      passed out of the room, and left Edith alone.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      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&rsquo;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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ready, dear?&rdquo; she asked brightly; then she paused, amazed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      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.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why, my dear!&rdquo; exclaimed Miss Santley. &ldquo;Whatever is the matter? Has

-      anything happened?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, nothing,&rdquo; said Edith, faintly. &ldquo;I have got a very bad headache, that

-      is all; and&mdash;and&mdash;I cannot go to church again to-day, Miss

-      Santley.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Go to church,&rdquo; echoed Miss Santley. &ldquo;Why, my dearest girl, of course you

-      cant go to church! I will send Jane with a message to Charles, and stay

-      and take care of you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      But this Edith would not allow. She pulled the handkerchief from her

-      forehead, and declared her intention of going home.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Miss Santley kissed her kindly. At this exhibition of tenderness Edith

-      fairly broke down. She threw her arms around the lady&rsquo;s neck, and burst

-      into tears.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&mdash;I am so sorry,&rdquo; she said at last, when her sobs had somewhat

-      subsided; &ldquo;but I could not help it. I&mdash;I am such a coward when I am

-      ill!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Miss Santley said nothing; she knew she could do nothing. There was some

-      mystery here which she could not fathom, so she yielded to the girl&rsquo;s

-      solicitations and allowed her to go home.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XXII. AT THE VICARAGE.

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>ne evening about

-      the middle of the week, as the Rev. Mr. Santley sat alone in his study a

-      card was brought to him, on which was printed&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Mr. Walter Hetherington.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The clergyman raised his brows as he read, and asked the maid, who waited

-      respectfully at the door, if the gentleman had not called upon him before.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Once before, sir!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Did he state his business?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;He did not, sir; he only said he would not detain you long.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well, ask the gentleman to be good enough to walk this way.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The maid retired, and a moment afterwards Walter entered the room.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The two men bowed to each other. One glance had assured Santley that any

-      attempt at a warmer greeting would be injudicious; the other might not

-      respond, and it would never do for the vicar of the parish to be snubbed

-      by an itinerant painter whom nobody knew&mdash;besides, under the

-      circumstances, a bow was ample greeting. He infused into it as much

-      politeness as possible, welcomed his young friend to the Vicarage, and,

-      pointing to a chair which he had drawn forward, begged him to be seated.

-      Decidedly the clergyman was the most self-possessed of the two. For Walter

-      took his seat in nervous silence; while Santley, wondering greatly in his

-      own mind what could possibly have procured him the honour of that visit,

-      kept the scene from flagging by that wonderful gift of small talk with

-      which he was possessed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He was very pleased indeed to meet Mr. Hetherington. He had done him the

-      honour to call upon him once before he thought&mdash;yes, he was sure of

-      it; and he had also had the pleasure of meeting him once before, when he

-      had not had the honour of his acquaintance. Was Mr. Hetherington thinking

-      of making a long stay amongst them?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not very long,&rdquo; said Walter.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I suppose you have made some charming sketches?&rdquo; continued the clergyman.

-      &ldquo;There are pretty little spots about the village, spots well worthy of a

-      painters brush. I used to do a little in that way myself when I was a

-      youngster at college; but the vicar of a parish has onerous duties. I

-      suppose at the present moment I should hardly know how to handle a brush.

-      Are you thinking of leaving us soon, Mr. Hetherington?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am not quite sure!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ah! well, if you stay and would like to make use of my library, I should

-      feel greatly honoured. It is the only thing I have to offer you, I fear;

-      but I shall be very pleased indeed to put it at your service. It contains

-      a few books on your own art, which might interest you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You are very kind, Mr. Santley.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not at all, my dear sir; I am merely neighbourly. Life would be dreary

-      indeed if one could not be neighbourly in a place like this!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Mr. Santley, I have come to you for your advice.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The clergyman, nervously dreading what was to follow, looked at his

-      visitor with a calm smile, and answered pleasantly enough.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My advice? My dear sir, I place it freely at your service, and myself

-      also if I can be of the slightest use to you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You can be of very great use to me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The clergyman merely bowed this time and waited, so Walter continued&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You know my cousin, Miss Edith Dove?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      As he spoke he fixed his eyes keenly upon the clergyman&rsquo;s face, but the

-      latter made no sign; he neither winced nor changed colour, but answered

-      calmly enough.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I have the pleasure of the lady&rsquo;s acquaintance. She is one of the most

-      esteemed members of my congregation.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It is about Miss Dove I wished to speak to you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Again the clergyman bowed; again he found it unnecessary to make a reply.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Walter, growing somewhat ill at ease, continued&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t mind confessing to you, Mr. Santley, that at one period of my

-      career I hoped most earnestly, and indeed confidently believed, that at no

-      very remote date I should have the happiness of making her my wife. I was

-      sincerely attached to her; I believe she was attached to me. But recently

-      all has changed. She is wasting her life; throwing aside all chance of

-      happiness, through some mad infatuation about the Church.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Some mad infatuation about the Church!&rdquo; returned the clergyman,

-      methodically. &ldquo;Really, my dear sir, I am afraid you forget you are

-      speaking to a clergyman of the Church. As to Miss Dove, she is a lady

-      whose conduct is without reproach; she is one of the Church&rsquo;s staunchest

-      supporters!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then you approve her present mode of life; you uphold it? You will not

-      advise her to shake her morbid fancies away? to accept an honest affection

-      and a happy home?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Santley seemed to reflect.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;As a clergyman of the Church, I should advise her the other way, I think.

-      Surely the fulfilment of religious duties points to a more elevated mode

-      of existence than mere marrying and giving in marriage. I am sorry for

-      you, since I believe that any man possessed of that lady&rsquo;s esteem might

-      deem himself fortunate; still, I could not advise her to act against her

-      conscience and the promptings of religion.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And me, what do you advise me to do?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The clergyman shrugged his shoulders. &ldquo;It seems to me that there is only

-      one thing that you can do. If the lady finds your attentions disagreeable,

-      surely the most honourable course for you to adopt would be to leave her&mdash;in

-      peace.&rdquo; Walter rose, and the clergyman breathed more freely, believing

-      that the interview had come to a satisfactory end. Neither of them spoke

-      for a minute or so, till the clergyman looked up, and said quietly&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You have something more to say, Mr. Hetherington?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; 9 answered Walter; &ldquo;I have something more to say.&rdquo; Then, going a

-      few steps nearer to the clergyman, he added, &ldquo;You are a hypocrite, Mr.

-      Santley!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The clergyman&rsquo;s face grew pale. He rose hastily from his seat; but before

-      he could speak Walter continued, vehemently&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Do you think I don&rsquo;t know you? Do you think I haven&rsquo;t discovered that it

-      is you, and not the Church, who has taken my cousin from me? You talk to

-      me of religion, of religious duties, and yet you know that you are playing

-      the hypocrite to her, as you have done to me, and that you are breaking

-      her heart.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He paused, flushed, excited, and angry. The clergyman stood calm and very

-      pale.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You do well to seek this interview in my house, sir,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Now you

-      have insulted me with impunity, perhaps you will take your leave.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      But Walter made no attempt to move.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Before I go,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I wish to know what are your plans regarding my

-      cousin?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And I should like to ask you, sir,&rdquo; returned the clergyman, &ldquo;what

-      authority you have for interfering in my private affairs?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I have no authority; your private affairs are nothing to me. I speak in

-      the interest of my cousin!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Really! I should fancy your interference would be hardly likely to do her

-      much good.&rdquo; #

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Mr. Santley, I shall ask you one more question. Do you, or do you not,

-      mean to marry my cousin?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And if I refuse to answer?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I shall make it my duty, before tomorrow night, to expose you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Really!&rdquo; returned the clergyman, with an exasperating smile. &ldquo;You will

-      draw your cousin&rsquo;s good name through the mire in order to throw a little

-      mud at me. I should think, young man, you must be a treasure to your

-      family. Good evening. I will ring for the servant to show you out.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      And he did ring&mdash;at the most opportune moment too; for Walter,

-      staggered by that last thrust, perceived that his enemy was on the side of

-      power. So, when in answer to her master&rsquo;s summons the servant appeared,

-      Walter followed her; he was afraid to utter another word, for Edith&rsquo;s

-      sake.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When he was gone, all Santley&rsquo;s calmness deserted him, and he walked up

-      and down the room in a fit of uncontrollable rage. When he had grown

-      calmer, he sat down and wrote one of his neatly worded epistles to Edith,

-      making an appointment for the following day.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He half believed that Walter had come to him, as Edith&rsquo;s authorized

-      messenger, to attempt to force upon him those bonds which he was so very

-      reluctant to wear. The clergyman could not in any other way account for

-      his knowledge of the relations existing between the two. It was well for

-      Edith that at that moment she was not near her lover&mdash;well for her,

-      also, that no meeting could take place between them until the following

-      day.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The next day Santley was very much more composed, and when he walked

-      towards the trysting-place none would have known, from his outward

-      appearance, that anything was materially wrong. He had made the

-      appointment in daylight this time; since embraces could be dispensed with,

-      so also could darkness and night. There was really nothing in this meeting

-      after all; nothing but what might have been witnessed by a dozen pair of

-      eyes. Those who did see it would see only an event of ordinary everyday

-      life.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Miss Edith Dove, walking leisurely towards the village, was overtaken by

-      the clergyman, who paused to shake hands with her, and to walk with her a

-      part of the way. Had any one looked closely at these two, he would have

-      seen that the clergyman, though calm, was very pale; that Edith, pale too,

-      had a weary, listless look about her face; that after she had shaken hands

-      with her pastor, she quickly turned away her head, for her eyes grew dim

-      with tears.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      If Santley saw the tears he did not care to notice them. He had found,

-      directly they met, that she was suffering from one of those deplorable

-      fits of temper which had more than once caused trouble between them; but

-      that could not be taken any notice of now. If she chose to wear herself to

-      a shadow, it was her own affair; he had something more important on hand.

-      The interview could not be a long one, therefore he must reach the heart

-      of the matter at once.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      So he began abruptly&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Edith, this new course you have adopted is a dangerous one, and had

-      better be abandoned without loss of time.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The girl raised her eyes to his face, and asked wearily&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What do you mean? What have I done?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I suppose you are responsible for your cousin&rsquo;s visit to my house; you

-      must have instigated it, if you did not actually advise him!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Again she raised her troubled eyes to his face, and said sadly&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know what you mean.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then I will tell you, Edith. Your cousin, a hot-headed, ill-mannered

-      youth, has thought fit to take upon himself the part of protector, or

-      guardian, of your happiness. In this capacity he paid me a domiciliary

-      visit yesterday, and treated me to some most violent abuse. He threatened

-      to make known to the public the relations between us. I advised him to

-      think it over, for your sake!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My cousin&mdash;Walter Hetherington, do you mean?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Most certainly.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But how does he know? how has he learned?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;From you, I suppose.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No; it is not from me,&rdquo; returned Edith, whose listlessness was fast

-      disappearing. &ldquo;I have said nothing; I have never even mentioned your name

-      to him. It must be known; it must be talked of in the village. Oh,

-      Charles, spare me! Keep your promise to me, for God&rsquo;s sake! Any open

-      disgrace would be more than I could bear. I should die.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The girl, overcome by her emotion, had forgotten for the moment that their

-      present interview was a perfectly public one. The clergyman coldly

-      reminded her of the fact. Then, after she had forced upon herself a

-      composure which she was far from feeling, he continued&mdash;&ldquo;You had

-      better understand, Edith, once and for ever, that whatever my conduct may

-      be, I do not choose to have it questioned by this exceedingly officious

-      young man. A repetition of the scene of yesterday I will not bear. And as

-      it is evident to me that my actions are under surveillance, I must refuse

-      either to see or hear from you again, until that young man has removed

-      himself from the village.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Charles, you surely don&rsquo;t mean that?&rdquo; exclaimed the girl.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      But he certainly did mean it, and though she pleaded and argued, he

-      remained firm. At last she resolved that she would speak to Walter, resent

-      his interference, and, if possible, induce him to return home.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Then the two shook hands and parted.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      That evening Walter dined at the-cottage. During the dinner Edith scarcely

-      looked at him; while he himself was silent and distrait. But after dinner,

-      when they had all retired to the drawing-room, when the old lady had

-      settled down to her wool-work, and Walter had lit his cigar, Edith threw a

-      light shawl over her head, and asked him if he would come with her into

-      the garden.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Wondering very much at the request, Walter rose at once, and offered her

-      his arm. She took it; but the moment they were alone she withdrew her hand

-      and turned angrily upon him. Walter listened, and he found that he had

-      some chance of being heard. He acknowledged that she had spoken the truth;

-      he <i>had</i> interfered; he had deemed it quite right that he should do

-      so for her sake.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;For my sake!&rdquo; returned Edith. &ldquo;It seems to me there is more of

-      selfishness than benevolence in what you have done. What is it to you if I

-      am engaged to Mr. Santley? and if we choose to keep our engagement a

-      secret, what is that to you? I am my own mistress; I can act just as I

-      think fit, without the fear of coercion from any one. <i>You</i>, at any

-      rate, have no right to regulate my actions or to dictate them. I suppose

-      you think I have no right to marry any one, simply because I refuse to be

-      coerced into marrying you!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      It was a cruel thing to say; but Edith was simply dealing him, secondhand,

-      some of the stabs which she herself had received from her beloved pastor

-      in the morning. The stabs went deep into his heart, and the wounds

-      remained for many a day. When Edith had uttered a few more truisms with

-      the characteristic selfishness of love and hatred, Walter coldly suggested

-      that their pleasant stroll in the garden might be brought to a

-      termination.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      They returned together to the house. As the old lady, beaming with delight

-      at what she believed to be the sudden and happy reconciliation of the

-      cousins, had prepared the tea, Walter pleased her by sitting down to take

-      some before he said good night.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      But the next day he returned to town.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XXIII. DR. DUPRÉ&rsquo;S ELIXIR.

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">G</span>eorge Haldane

-      returned home in the best of spirits. His paper had been received with

-      enthusiasm by the <i>savants</i> of France, and his life in Paris had been

-      one pleasant succession of visits, learned conversaziones, and private

-      entertainments. Thanks to his happy pre-occupation, he scarcely noticed

-      that his wife&rsquo;s manner was constrained, nervous, yet deeply solicitous;

-      that she looked pale and worn, as if with constant watching; and that, in

-      answer to his careless questioning as to affairs at home, she made only

-      fragmentary replies.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      On entering his dressing-room to change his apparel, he found Baptisto,

-      who was quietly undoing his portmanteau and selecting the necessary things

-      with a calm air, as if his services had never been interrupted.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;So, my Baptisto,&rdquo; he said, clapping that worthy on the shoulder, &ldquo;you are

-      not dead or buried, I see? Ah, you may smile, but I am quite aware of the

-      trick you played me. Well, you have been the loser. You would have had a

-      pleasant time of it in Paris, the best of entertainment, and nothing

-      whatever to do.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am glad you have returned, senor,&rdquo; replied Baptisto, with his customary

-      solemnity.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I hope you have given satisfaction to your mistress during my absence?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I hope so, senor.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Humph! we shall see what report she has to make concerning you, and if

-      that is favourable, I may forgive your freak of laziness.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I have not been lazy, senor,&rdquo; said Baptisto, quietly preparing the

-      toilette.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Indeed! Pray, how have you been employing yourself?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Baptisto did not reply, but smiled again.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;How is your inamerata and her family? I saw the little woman curtsying as

-      I passed through the lodge-gates.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Baptisto shook his head solemnly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ah, senor,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you are mistaken. The woman of the lodge is a

-      stupid person; and for the rest, I put no faith in women. <i>Cuerpo di

-      Baccho</i>, no! They smile upon us when we are near; but no sooner do we

-      turn our backs, than they smile upon some other man.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Pretty philosophy,&rdquo; returned Haldane, with a laugh. &ldquo;Why, you are a

-      downright misogynist, my Baptisto. But I don&rsquo;t believe one word you say,

-      for all that. Men who talk like you are generally very easy conquests, and

-      I would bet twenty to one on the little widow still.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ah, senor, if all women were like your signora, it would be different.

-      She is so good, so pure, so faithful at her devotions. It is a great thing

-      to have religion.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      As Baptisto spoke his back was turned to his master, so that the

-      extraordinary expression of his face was unnoticed, and there was no

-      indication in his tone that he spoke satirically. Haldane shrugged his

-      shoulders and said nothing, not caring to discuss his wife&rsquo;s virtues with

-      a servant, however familiar. Presently he went downstairs to dinner. All

-      that evening he was very affectionate and merry, talking volubly of his

-      adventures in Paris, of his scientific acquaintances, and of such new

-      discoveries as they had brought under his notice. In the course of his

-      happy chat he spoke frequently of a new acquaintance, one Dr. Dupré, whom

-      he had met in the French capital. &ldquo;The French, however far behind the

-      Germans in speculative affairs,&rdquo; he observed, &ldquo;are far their superiors,

-      and ours, in physiology. Take this Dupré, for example. He is a wonderful

-      fellow! His dissections and vivisections&rsquo; have brought him to such a point

-      of mastery that he is almost certain that he has discovered the problem

-      poor Lewes broke his heart over&mdash;how and by what mechanism we can&rsquo;t

-      think. I don&rsquo;t quite believe he has succeeded in that great discovery, but

-      some of his minor discoveries are extraordinary. Did you read the account

-      in the papers of his elixir of death?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Ellen shook her head. The very name seemed horrible.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;His elixir of death?&rdquo; she repeated.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes. A chemical preparation, the fundamental principle of which is

-      morphine. By its agency he can so produce in a living organism the

-      ordinary phenomena of death, that even <i>rigor mortis</i> is simulated. I

-      saw the experiment tried on two rabbits, a Newfoundland dog, and, to crown

-      all, on the human subject. They were all, to every appearance, dead; the

-      rabbits for twenty-four hours, the dog for half a day, and the woman for

-      an hour and a half.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Horrible!&rdquo; exclaimed Ellen, with a shudder. &ldquo;Do you actually mean he

-      experimented on a living woman?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes; on a strapping wench, the daughter of his housekeeper; and a very

-      fine thing she made of it. We subscribed together, and presented her with

-      a purse of a thousand francs.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I think such things are wicked,&rdquo; cried Ellen, with some warmth. &ldquo;Mere

-      mortals have no right to play, in that way, with the mystery of life and

-      death.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My dear Nell,&rdquo; cried Haldane, laughing, &ldquo;it is in the interests of

-      science!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But I am sure it is not right. Life is given and taken by God alone.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Your argument, if accepted, would make all mankind accept the religion of

-      the Peculiar People, who will cure no diseases by human intervention. As

-      to this business of suspended animation, it is merely a part of our

-      discoveries in anodynes. Dupré&rsquo;s experiment, I know, is perfectly safe.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But that is not the question.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;How so, my dear?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What I mean is, that death is too solemn and awful a thing to imitate as

-      you describe. Such experiments are simply blasphemous, in my opinion.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Come, come,&rdquo; cried the philosopher. &ldquo;There is no blasphemy where there is

-      no irreverence. According to your religious people, your priests of the

-      churches, there was blasphemy in circumnavigating the globe; in

-      discovering the circulation of the blood; in ascertaining the age of the

-      earth; and, still later, in using chloroform to lessen the pangs of

-      parturition.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But what purpose can be served by such experiments as <i>that?</i>&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;A good many,&rdquo; was the reply. &ldquo;For example, it may help us to the

-      discovery of the nature of life itself, which has puzzled everybody, from

-      Parmenides down to Haeckel. If we can by a simple anodyne suspend the

-      vital mechanism for a period, and then by a vegetable antidote restore it

-      again to action, the resurrection of Lazarus will cease to be a miracle,

-      and the pretensions of Christianity&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Ellen rose impatiently, with an expression of sincere pain.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My dear Nell, what is the matter?&rdquo; cried her husband.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I cannot bear to hear you discuss such a thing. Oh, George, if you would

-      leave such wicked speculations alone, and try to believe in the mystery

-      and sovereignty of God!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You mean, burn my books, and go to hear your seraphic friend every

-      Sunday?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Had he not touched, unconsciously, on another painful chord? Why,

-      otherwise, did his wife flush scarlet and partially avert her face?

-      Conquering herself with an effort, she went over to him, and bending over

-      him, looked fondly into his face.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You are so much cleverer than I, so much wiser, and do you think I am not

-      proud of your wisdom? But, all the same, dear, I wish you did not think as

-      you do. When life becomes a mere experiment, a mere thing of mechanism,

-      what will be left? If we knew everything, even what we are, and why we

-      exist, the world would be a tomb&mdash;with no place in it for the Living

-      God.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Touched by her manner, Haldane drew her down by his side and kissed her;

-      then, with more earnestness than he had yet exhibited, he answered her,

-      holding her hand in his own and pressing it softly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My dear Nell, do me the justice to believe that I am not quite a

-      materialist; simple agnosticism is the very converse of materialism. There

-      is not living a scientific philosopher of any eminence who does not, in

-      his calculations, postulate a mystery which can never be solved by the

-      finest intellect. Even if we had fully completed, with the poet&mdash;=

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The new creed of science, which showeth to man

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      How he darkly began,

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      How he grew from a cell to a soul, without plan;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      How he breaks like a wave of the ocean, and goes

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      To eternal repose&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A tone that must fade, tho&rsquo; the great Music grows! &lsquo;=

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      even then, we should know nothing of the First Cause. That must for ever

-      remain inscrutable.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But how horrible it would be to believe in annihilation? <i>Can</i> you

-      believe in it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Certainly not,&rdquo; replied the philosopher.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Ellens face brightened.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Oh, I am so glad to hear you say that!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My dear Nell, annihilation is absurd.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Now, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo; she cried triumphantly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It is refuted, on the face of it, by the doctrine of the conservation of

-      force. Life is eternal, in one shape or another; no force can be

-      destroyed, be sure of that!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I wish Mr. Santley could hear you! He wouldn&rsquo;t call you an atheist then!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane&rsquo;s face darkened angrily.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What? Does the man actually&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t misunderstand,&rdquo; cried Ellen, flushing scarlet. &ldquo;I do not mean that

-      he really calls you an atheist, but he is so sorry, so deeply sorry, that

-      you do not believe. He does not know you, dear, and takes all my bear&rsquo;s

-      satirical growling for solemn earnest. Now, when I tell him&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You will tell him nothing,&rdquo; exclaimed Haldane, with sudden sternness. &ldquo;I

-      will have no priest coming between my wife and me!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Mr. Santley would never do that,&rdquo; she returned, now trembling violently.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Mr. Santley is like all his tribe, I suppose&mdash;a meddler and a

-      mischief-maker. That is the worst of other-worldliness; it gives these

-      traders in the Godhead, these peddlers who would give us in exchange for

-      belief in their superstitions a <i>bonus</i> in paradise, an excuse for

-      making this world unbearable. Well, my atheism, if you choose to call it

-      so, against his theism. Mine at least keeps me a man among men, while his

-      keeps him a twaddler among women.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane spoke with heat, for the word &ldquo;atheist&rdquo; had somehow stung him to

-      the quick. This man, who rejected all outward forms of belief, and whose

-      conversation was habitually ironical, was in his inmost nature deeply and

-      sincerely religious; humbly reverent before the forces of nature;

-      spiritually conscious of that Power beyond ourselves which makes for

-      righteousness. True, he rejected the ordinary forms of theism; but he had,

-      on the other hand, a deep though dumb reverence for the character of

-      Christ, and he had no sympathy with such out-and-out materialists as

-      Haeckel and <i>hoc genus omne</i>. For the rest, he was liberal-minded,

-      and had no desire to interfere with his wife&rsquo;s convictions; could smile a

-      little at her simplicity, and would see no harm in her clerical

-      predispositions, so long as the clergyman didn&rsquo;t encroach too far on the

-      domain of married life and domestic privacy.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      His indignation did not last. Seeing his wife greatly agitated, and

-      fearing that he had caused her pain, he drew her forehead down and kissed

-      it; then, patting her cheek, he said&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Forgive me, Nell. I did not mean to scold; but one does not like hard

-      names. When any one calls me &lsquo;atheist,&rsquo; I am like the old woman whom

-      Cobbett called a &lsquo;parallelogram;&rsquo; it is not the significance of the

-      epithet, but its opprobrium, that rouses me. Besides, I do not like any

-      man to abuse me&mdash;to my own wife.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No one does that,&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;You know I would not listen.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I hope not, my dear.&rdquo; He added after a little, looking at her

-      thoughtfully and sadly, &ldquo;Man and wife have fallen asunder before now, on

-      this very question of religion. Well, rather than that should happen, I

-      will let you convert me. Will that satisfy you?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I shall never be quite satisfied till I know that you believe as I do.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What is that, pray?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That there is a just God, who made and cherishes us; and that, through

-      the blood of His Son we shall live again although we die!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well, it is a beautiful creed, my dear.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And true?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why not? I will go with you thus far. I believe that, if there is a God,

-      He is just, and that we shall certainly live again, if it is for our

-      good.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The emphasis with which he spoke the last words attracted her attention.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;For our good?&rdquo; she queried.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am quoting the saddest words ever written, by the saddest and best man

-      I ever knew. * He, too, believed that a God might spare us, and give us

-      eternal life, if&mdash;mark the proviso&mdash;eternal life were indeed <i>for

-      our good.</i> But suppose the contrary&mdash;suppose God knew better, and

-      that it would be an evil and unhappy gift? Alas! who knows?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-<pre xml:space="preserve">

-     *  J. S. Mill.

-</pre>

-    <p>

-      He rose from his chair, still encircling his wife&rsquo;s waist, and moved

-      towards the door.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Come to the drawing-room,&rdquo; he cried gaily. &ldquo;After so much offhand

-      theology, a little music will be delightful. Ah, Nell, one breath of

-      Beethoven is worth all the prosings of your parsons. Play to me, and,

-      while the music lasts, I will believe what you will.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XXIV. THE EXPERIMENT.

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he next morning

-      Haldane was busy in his laboratory. When he came in to lunch, looking

-      disreputable enough in his old coat, and smelling strongly of tobacco, he

-      said to his wife&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;By-the-by, Nell, do you remember what I told you last night about Dupré&rsquo;s

-      wonderful elixir? I forgot to tell you that I have brought some of it with

-      me, for purposes of private experiment.&rdquo; Ellen looked horrified.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be afraid,&rdquo; he continued, laughing; &ldquo;your cats and dogs are safe

-      from me. I have found a better subject, and mean to operate on him this

-      very afternoon.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Whom do you mean?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;As a sort of penance for his shamming illness, I shall kill Baptisto.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She uttered a cry, and raised her hands in protest.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;For heavens sake, George, be warned! If you have any of that horrible

-      stuff, throw it away.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Now, my dear Nell,&rdquo; said the philosopher, &ldquo;be reasonable; there is not

-      the slightest cause for alarm. You will see this experiment, and it will,

-      I hope, treble your faith in miracles.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I will <i>not</i> see it. I beseech you, abandon the idea. As for

-      Baptisto&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      At this moment the Spaniard entered the room, carrying certain dishes.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I have been telling your mistress, Baptisto, that you are ready to be a

-      martyr to science. At four o&rsquo;clock precisely, you will be a dead man.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Baptisto bowed solemnly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am quite ready, senor.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      But here Ellen interposed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It is ridiculous; your master is only joking. He would not do anything so

-      foolish, so wicked. As for you, I forbid you to encourage him.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Baptisto bowed again, with a curious smile.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It is for the senor to command. As he knows, he has saved my life, and he

-      may take it whenever he pleases.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane nodded, in the act of drinking a glass of wine.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be afraid, Baptisto. After death, there is the resurrection.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That, senor, is your affair,&rdquo; returned the Spaniard, phlegmatically,

-      shrugging his shoulders. &ldquo;You will do with me as you please.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      And so saying, he glided from the room.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Ellen again and again entreated her husband not to proceed in his

-      experiment; but he had long made up his mind that it was perfectly safe,

-      and he could not be persuaded. To her gentle: spirit, the whole idea

-      seemed horrible in the extreme; but her greatest dread was that it might

-      be attended with danger to the subject. Haldane, however, assured her that

-      this was impossible.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      All the afternoon Haldane and Baptisto were together in the laboratory. A

-      little after four o&rsquo;clock, as Ellen was walking on the terrace, Haldane

-      came to her, smiling and holding up a small vial.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It is all over,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and the experiment is quite successful. Come

-      and see.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Not quite understanding him, she suffered him to lead her into the

-      laboratory; but, on crossing the threshold, she uttered a cry of horror.

-      Stretched on a sofa, lay Baptisto, moveless, and, to all seeming, without

-      one breath of life. His eyes were wide open, but rayless; his jaw fixed,

-      his face pale as grey marble; a peaceful smile, as of death itself, upon

-      his handsome face. The light of the sun, just sinking towards the west,

-      streamed in through the high window upon the apparently lifeless form. In

-      the chamber itself there was a sickly smell, like that of some suffocating

-      vapour. The whole scene would have startled and appalled even a strong

-      man.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Oh, George!&rdquo; cried the lady, clasping her hands. &ldquo;What have you done?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be alarmed,&rdquo; was the reply, &ldquo;Its all right!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But you said the experiment&mdash;&mdash;-

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Was successful? Perfectly. There lies our poor friend, comfortably

-      finished.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But are you sure, quite sure, that he is not dead? He is not breathing.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Of course not. The simulation is perfect. Place your hand on his wrist&mdash;you

-      will detect no pulse. Turn his pupils to the light&mdash;you see, they do

-      not contract. The case would deceive a whole college of physicians.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      As he spoke, he suited the action to the word&mdash;placed his finger upon

-      the pulse, gazed at the glazing pupils; raised one of the lifeless arms,

-      which, on being released, fell heavily as lead.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Horrible, horrible! For God&rsquo;s sake, recover him!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;All in good time. He has only been dead a quarter of an hour; in half an

-      hour precisely I shall say, &lsquo;Arise and walk.&rsquo; Feel his forehead, Nell; it

-      is as cold as marble.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      But Ellen drew back, shuddering, and could not be persuaded to touch the

-      sleeper.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well, go back to your promenade. I will call you when he is awakened.&rdquo;

-       Sick and terrified, Ellen obeyed her husband. Standing on the terrace, she

-      waited for his summons; and at last it came. Haldane appeared, and

-      beckoned; she followed him to the laboratory, and there, seated in an

-      armchair, comfortably sipping a glass of wine, was the Spaniard&mdash;a

-      little pale still, but otherwise not the worse for his state of coma.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Thank God!&rdquo; cried Ellen.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I thought he would never recover. But it must have been a horrible

-      experience.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Baptisto smiled.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Tell the signora all about it,&rdquo; said his master. &ldquo;Did you feel any pain?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;None, senor.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What were your sensations? Pleasant or otherwise?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Quite pleasant, senor. It was like sinking into an agreeable sleep. If

-      death is like that, it is a bagatelle.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Were you at all conscious?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not of this world, senor, but I had bright dreams of another. I thought I

-      was in paradise, walking in the sunshine&mdash;ah, so bright! I was sorry,

-      senor, when I came back to this world.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You hear!&rdquo; cried Haldane, turning to his wife. &ldquo;After all, death itself

-      may be a glorious experience; for &lsquo;in that sleep of death what dreams may

-      come!&rsquo; It is quite clear at least that all the phenomena of death, such as

-      we shrink from and shudder at, may be accompanied by some kind of pleasant

-      psychic consciousness. Bravo, Baptisto! After this, we shall call you

-      Lazarus the second. You have passed beyond the shadow of the sepulchre,

-      and returned to tell the tale.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Despite the resuscitation, Ellen still revolted from the whole proceeding.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Now you are satisfied,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;promise me never to use that dreadful

-      elixir again.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I think you may make your mind easy. The experiment is an ugly one, I

-      admit, and I am not anxious to repeat it&mdash;at least, not on the human

-      organism. For the same reason, my dear Nell, pray keep the affair to

-      yourself, and make no confidences, even to your confessor&mdash;I should

-      say, your clergyman, Will you promise?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Most certainly. I should not like any one to know you did such things. As

-      for Mr. Santley, he would be shocked beyond measure.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      So saying, she left the two men together. In the mean time, Baptisto

-      had-finished his wine and risen to his feet. While his master regarded him

-      with an approving smile, he walked over to the door, softly closed it, and

-      returning noiselessly across the room, said in a low voice&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;There is something, senor, I did not tell you. I had dreams.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;So you said, my Baptisto.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ah yes, but not all. While I was lying there, I thought that <i>you</i>

-      were the dead man, and that the senora, your widow, had married.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Married?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;The English priest.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane started, and looked in amazement at the speaker.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What the devil do you mean?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ah, senor, it was only my dream; a foolish dream. You were lying in your

-      winding-sheet, and they were kneeling at the altar&mdash;smiling, senor. I

-      did not like to speak of it to the senora; but it was very strange.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane forced a laugh, while, with a mysterious look, Baptisto crept from

-      the chamber. Was it in sheer simplicity or in deep cunning that the

-      Spaniard had spoken, touching so delicate a chord? Left alone, Haldane

-      paced up and down the laboratory in agitation. He was not by temperament a

-      jealous or a suspicious man, but he was troubled in spite of himself. The

-      words sounded like a warning, almost an insinuation.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What could the fellow mean?&rdquo; he asked himself again and again. &ldquo;Could he

-      possibly have dreamed <i>that?</i> No; it is preposterous. There was

-      malice in his eye, and mischief.... Ellen married to Santley! Bah! what am

-      I thinking about? The fellow is not a <i>prophet!</i>&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      In this manner, whether in innocence or for some set purpose of his own,

-      Baptisto contrived to poison all the sweetness of that successful

-      experiment. When Haldane again joined his wife that evening, he was

-      taciturn, distraught, nervous, and irritable. All his buoyancy had

-      departed. Ellen saw the change, and puzzled herself to account for it.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She played to him, sang to him, but failed to drive the cloud from his

-      brow.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When she had retired for the night, he still sat pondering over Baptisto&rsquo;s

-      words.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XXV. &ldquo;BEWARE, MY LORD, OF JEALOUSY!&rdquo;

-     </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>f Baptisto&rsquo;s

-      object in describing a dream so ominous was to attract his master&rsquo;s

-      attention to the intimate relations between Mrs. Haldane and the

-      clergyman, he certainly succeeded. Once assured in this direction,

-      Haldane&rsquo;s perceptions were keen enough. He noticed that the mere mention

-      of Santley&rsquo;s name filled Ellen with a sort of nervous constraint; that,

-      although the clergyman&rsquo;s visits were frequent, they were generally made at

-      times when Haldane himself was busy and preoccupied&mdash;that is to say,

-      during his well-known hours of work; and that, moreover, Santley, however

-      much he liked the society of the lady, invariably avoided the husband, or,

-      if they met, contrived to frame some excuse for speedy parting. Now,

-      Haldane trusted his wife implicitly, and believed her incapable of any

-      infidelity, even in thought. Still, he did not quite like the aspect of

-      affairs. Much as he trusted his wife, he had a strong moral distrust for

-      anything in the shape of a priest; and he determined, therefore, to keep

-      his eyes upon the clergyman.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A few days after that curious physiological experiment, he had the

-      following conversation with Baptisto. It was the first day of the week.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Baptisto, I thought you were a good Catholic?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;So I am, senor,&rdquo; returned the Spaniard, smiling.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yet you went to an English church-yesterday, I hear?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, senor. I go there very often.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why, pray?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Simply out of curiosity. Mr. Santley is a beautiful preacher, and has a

-      silvery voice. While you were away, I went once, twice, three times. There

-      is a young senora there who plays sweetly upon the great organ; I like to

-      listen, to-watch the congregation.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Humph! By-the-bye, Baptisto, I have been thinking over the dream of

-      yours, when&mdash;when you were lying there.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, senor?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Pray, what put such a foolish idea in your head?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I cannot tell, senor; all I know is, it came. A foolish dream, do you

-      say? I suppose it is because the clergyman was here so often, when you

-      were away. And madame is so devout! I trust, senor, my dream has not given

-      you offence; perhaps I was wrong to speak of it at all.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldanes face had gone black as a thunder-cloud. Placing his hand on the

-      other&rsquo;s shoulder, and looking firmly into his face, he said&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Listen to me, Baptisto.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am listening, senor.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;If I thought you would come back to life to tell lies about your

-      mistress, I would have let you lie the other day and rot like a dead dog,

-      rather than have recovered you at all. You hear? Take care! I know you do

-      not love your mistress, but if you dare to whisper one word against her, I

-      will drive you for ever from my door.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Baptisto bowed his head respectfully before the storm, but retained his

-      usual composure.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Senor, may I speak?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes; but again, take care!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You should not blame me if I am jealous for your honour!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane started, and uttered an expletive.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My honour, you dog? What do you mean?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;This, senor. I would rather die than give you offence; and as for the

-      senora, I love her also, for is she not your wife? But will you be angry

-      still, when I tell you, when I warn you, to beware of that man, that

-      priest? He is a bad man, very bad. Ah, I have watched&mdash;and seen!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What have you seen?&rdquo; cried Haldane, clutching him by the arm. &ldquo;Come, out

-      with it!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Enough to show me that he is not your friend&mdash;that he is dangerous.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Bah! is that all? Now, listen to me, and be sure I mean what I say. I

-      will have no servant of mine spying upon my wife. I will have no servant

-      of mine insinuating that my honour is in danger. If I hear another word of

-      this, if you convey to me by one look the fact that you are still prying,

-      spying, and suspecting, I shall take you by the collar and send you flying

-      out of my house. Now, go!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Baptisto, who knew his master&rsquo;s temper perfectly, bowed and withdrew. He

-      had no wish to say one word more. He had thrown out a dark hint, a black

-      seed of suspicion, and he knew that he might safely let it work. It did

-      work, rapidly and terribly. Left alone, Haldane became a prey to the

-      wildest fears and suspicions. He remembered now that his wife had been

-      acquainted with this man in her girlhood; that there had even been some

-      passage of love between them. He remembered how eagerly she had renewed

-      the acquaintance, and with what admiring zeal the clergyman had responded.

-      He pictured to himself the sympathetic companionship, the zealous

-      meetings, the daily religious intercourse, of these two young people, each

-      full of the fervour of a blind superstition. Could it be possible that

-      they loved each other? Questioning his memory, he recalled looks, words,

-      tones, which, although scarcely noticed at the time, seemed now of painful

-      significance. The mere thought was sickening. Already he realized the

-      terrible phrase-of the poet Young&mdash;&ldquo;the jealous are the damned.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane was not habitually a violent man. Though passionate and headstrong

-      by temperament, he had schooled himself to gentleness after a stormy

-      youth, and the chilly waters of philosophy, at which he drank daily, kept

-      his head cool and his pulses calm. But the stormy spirit, though hushed,

-      was not altogether dead within him, and under his habitual reticence and

-      good-humoured cynicism, there lay the most passionate idolatry for his

-      beautiful wife. He had set her up in his heart of hearts, with a faith too

-      perfect for much expression; and it had not occurred to him, in his

-      remotest dreams, that any other man could ever come between them.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      And now, suddenly as a lightning flash illumining a dark landscape, the

-      fear came upon him that perhaps he had been unwary and unwise. Was it

-      possible, he asked himself, that he had&rsquo; been too studious and too

-      book-loving, too reticent also in all those little attentions which by

-      women, who always love sweetmeats, are so tenderly prized? Moreover, he

-      was ten years his wife&rsquo;s, elder&mdash;was that disparity of years also a

-      barrier between their souls? No; he was sure it was not. He was sure that

-      she was not hypocritical, and that she loved him. Wherever the blame might

-      be, if blame there were, it was certainly not hers. She had been in all

-      respects, a tender and a sympathetic wife; encouraging his deep study of

-      science, even when she most distrusted its results; proud of his

-      attainments, and eager for his success; in short, a perfect helpmate, but

-      for her old-fashioned prejudices in the sphere of religion. Ah, <i>religion!</i>

-      There was the one word which solved the enigma, and aroused in our

-      philosopher&rsquo;s bosom that fierce indignation which long ago led Lucretius

-      into such passionate hate against the Phantom,=

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Which with horrid head

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Leered hideously from all the gates of heaven!&rdquo;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It needed only this to complete his loathing for the popular theology, for

-      all its teachers. Yes, he reflected, religion only was to blame. In its

-      name, his wife&rsquo;s sympathies had been tampered with, her spirit more or

-      less turned against himself; in its name, his house had been secretly

-      invaded, his domestic happiness poisoned, his peace of mind destroyed. It

-      was the old story! Wherever this shadow of superstition crawled, craft and

-      dissimulation began. Now, as in the beginning, it came between father and

-      child, sister and brother, man and wife.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It so happened that when George Haldane came forth from having his dark

-      hour alone, he rather avoided meeting his wife at once, and, taking his

-      hat, stepped out from the laboratory on to the shrubbery path. He had

-      scarcely done so, when his eye fell upon two figures standing together in

-      the distance, upon the terrace of the house. One was Mrs. Haldane, wearing

-      her garden hat and a loose shawl thrown over her shoulders. The other was

-      the clergyman of the parish.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane drew back, and watched. In that moment he knew the extent of his

-      humiliation; for never before had he been a spy upon his wife&rsquo;s actions.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Their backs were towards him. Santley was talking eagerly; Ellen was

-      looking down. Presently they began to move slowly along the terrace, side

-      by side.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane watched them gloomily. The sunlight fell brightly upon them, and

-      on the old Manor house, with its brilliant creepers and glittering panes,

-      while the old chapel, with the watcher in its ruined porch, remained in

-      shadow. It seemed like an omen. In the darkness of his hiding-place,

-      Haldane felt satanic. Yes, there they walked&mdash;children of God, as

-      they called themselves&mdash;in God&rsquo;s sunlight; and he, the searcher for

-      light, the unbeliever, was forgotten.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Presently Santley paused again, and, with an impassioned gesture, pointed

-      upward. Ellen raised her head, and looked upward too, listening eagerly to

-      his words. Haldane laughed fiercely to himself, with all the ugliness of

-      his jealousy upon him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Presently they disappeared into the house. A little afterwards Santley

-      emerged from the front door, and came walking rapidly down the avenue. His

-      manner was eager and happy, almost jubilant, and Haldane saw, when he

-      approached, that his face looked positively radiant.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He was passing, when Haldane stepped out and confronted him. He started,

-      paused, and a shadow fell instantaneously upon his handsome face.

-      Recovering himself, he held out his hand. Haldane did not seem to see the

-      gesture, but, nodding a careless greeting, said, with his habitual <i>sang

-      froid</i>&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well met, Mr. Santley. Here I am again, you see, hard at work. Have you

-      come from the house?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; answered Santley.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;On some new message of Christian charity and beneficence, I suppose? Ah,

-      my dear sir, you are indefatigable. And the old women of the parish must

-      indeed find you a Good Shepherd. Did you find my wife at home?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And zealous, as usual, I suppose?&rsquo; Ah, what a thing it is to be pious!

-      But let me beg you not to encourage her too much. Charity begins at home;

-      and what with soup-kitchens, offertories, subscriptions for church

-      repairs, and societies for the gratuitous distribution of flannel

-      waistcoats, I am in a fair way of being ruined.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Santley forced a laugh.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be afraid. My errand to-day was not a begging one, I assure you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am glad to hear it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I was merely bringing Mrs. Haldane a book I promised to lend her. To tell

-      the truth, she finds your library rather destitute of works of a religious

-      nature.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Do you really think so?&rdquo; exclaimed Haldane, drily. &ldquo;Why, I thought it

-      unusually well provided in that respect. Let me see! There are Volney&rsquo;s

-      &lsquo;Ruins of Empire,&rsquo; Monboddo&rsquo;s &lsquo;Dissertations,&rsquo; Drummond&rsquo;s &lsquo;Academical

-      Questions,&rsquo; excellent translations of Schopenhauer and Hartmann, not to

-      speak of thirty-six volumes of Diderot, and fifty of Arouet.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Santley opened his eyes in horror and astonishment.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Arouet!&rdquo; he ejaculated. &ldquo;Do you actually mean to call Voltaire a

-      religious writer?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Highly so. There is religion even in &lsquo;La Pucelle,&rsquo; but it reaches its

-      culmination in the &lsquo;Philosophical Dictionary.&rsquo;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And you would actually let Mrs. Haldane read such works as those?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Certainly; though, am sorry to say, she prefers &lsquo;The Old Helmet&rsquo; and the

-      &lsquo;Heir of Redclyffe.&rsquo; May I ask the name of the work you have been good

-      enough to lend her?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It is a book from which I myself have received great benefit&mdash;Père

-      Hyacinthes &lsquo;Sermons.&rsquo;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Père Hyacinthe?&rdquo; repeated Haldane. &ldquo;Ah! the jolly priest who reverenced

-      celibacy, and proclaimed himself the father of a strapping boy. Well, the

-      man was at least honest. I think all clergymen should marry, and at as

-      early an age as possible. What is your opinion?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Santley flushed to the temples, while Haldane watched him with a gloomy

-      smile.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I think&mdash;I am sure,&rdquo; he stammered, &ldquo;that the married state is the

-      happiest&mdash;perhaps the holiest.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;With these sentiments, of which I cordially approve, why the deuce are

-      you a bachelor?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The clergyman winced at the question, and his colour deepened; then, as if

-      musing, he glanced round towards the house&mdash;a look which was observed

-      and fully appreciated by his tormentor.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am sure my wife would encourage you to change your condition. Like most

-      women, she is by instinct a matchmaker.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Santley did not seem to hear; at any rate, he made no reply, but, holding

-      out his hand quickly, exclaimed&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I must go now. I am rather in haste.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane did not take the hand, but put his arm upon the clergyman&rsquo;s

-      shoulder.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well, good day,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Take my advice, though, and get a sensible

-      wife as soon as possible.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Santley tried to smile, but only succeeded in looking more pale and

-      nervous than usual. With a few murmured words of adieu, he moved rapidly

-      away.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Haldane watched him thoughtfully until he disappeared down the avenue.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I wonder if that man can smile?&rdquo; he said to himself. &ldquo;No; I am afraid he

-      is too horribly in earnest. I suppose, the women would call him handsome&mdash;<i>spiritual</i>;

-      but I hate such pallid, waxen-featured, handsome dolls. A pretty shepherd,

-      that, for a Christian flock to follow; a fellow who makes his very

-      ignorance of this world constitute his claim to act as cicerone to the

-      next. Fancy being jealous, actually <i>jealous</i>, of such a thing as

-      that!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He turned back into his laboratory and tried to dismiss Baptisto&rsquo;s

-      suggestion from his mind; but it was impossible. He could not disguise

-      from himself that Santley, with his seraphic face and sad, earnest eyes,

-      was the kind of creature whom the weaker sex adore, and that he was

-      rendered doubly dangerous to women by the radiant mesmerism of a

-      fascinating and voluptuous celestial superstition.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XXVI. FIRST LEAVES FROM A PHILOSOPHER NOTE-BOOK.

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> am about to set

-      down, in as concise a manner as possible, and at present solely for my

-      private edification (some day, perhaps, another eye may read the lines,

-      but not yet), certain events which have lately influenced my domestic

-      life. Were it not that even a professed scientist might decline to publish

-      experiments affecting his own private happiness, the description of the

-      events to which I allude might almost form a chapter in my slowly

-      progressing &ldquo;Physiology of Ethics,&rdquo; and the description would be at least

-      as interesting as many of Ferriers accounts of vivisection on dumb

-      animals. But, unfortunately, I am unable, in this case, to apply the

-      dissecting knife to my neighbours heart, without laying bare the ugly

-      wound in my own.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      To begin then, I, George Haldane, recluse, pessimist, moral physiologist,

-      and would-be moral philosopher, have discovered, at forty years of age,

-      that I am capable of the most miserable of all human passions; worse, that

-      this said ignoble passion of jealousy has a certain rational foundation.

-      For ten years I have been happy with a wife who seemed the perfection of

-      human gentleness and beauty; who, although unfortunately we have been

-      blest with no offspring, has shown the tenderest solicitude and sympathy

-      for the children of my brain; and who, in her wifely faith and sanctity,

-      seemed to be the sole link still holding me to a church whose history has

-      always filled me with abhorrence, and a religion whose infantine theology

-      I despise. Well, <i>nous avons changé tout cela</i>. My mind is no longer

-      peaceful, my hearth no longer sacred; and the woman I love seems slowly

-      drifting from me on a stream of sensuous spiritualism&mdash;another name

-      for a religious rehabilitation of the flesh.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      If any other man were the victim, I should think the situation highly

-      absurd. Here, on the one hand, is a fanatical Protestant priest, with the

-      face of a seraphic monk, the experience of a schoolgirl, and the <i>gaucherie</i>

-      of a country chorister who has never grown a beard; a fellow whose sole

-      claims to notice are his white hands, his clean linen, and his function as

-      a silly shepherd; a man fresh from college, ignorant of the world. Here,

-      on the other hand, am I, physically and intellectually his master, knowing

-      almost every creed beneath the sun, and the slave of none; indifferent to

-      vulgar human passions, and disposed to disintegrate them one and all with

-      the electric current of a negative philosophy. Between us both, trembling

-      this way and that, is that fair thing of flesh and blood, my wife, zealous

-      to save her own soul alive, and fearful at times, I fancy, that I have

-      sold mine to the Prince of Darkness. It is another version of science

-      against superstition, common sense against a lie; and Ellen Haldane is the

-      prize. A fiery Spaniard, like Baptisto yonder, would end the affair with a

-      stiletto-thrust; but I, of colder blood, am not likely to do anything so

-      courageous or so foolish, but am content to watch and watch, and to feel

-      the sick contamination of my suspicion creeping over me like an

-      unwholesome mildew. A stiletto thrust? Why, the mere tongue, a less fatal

-      weapon, would do it all. If I could only summon up the courage to say to

-      my wife, &ldquo;I know your secret; choose between this man and me, between his

-      creed and mine, between your duty as a wife and your zeal as a Christian,&rdquo;

-       I fancy there would be an end to it all. But I am too timorous; I suppose,

-      too ashamed of my suspicions, too proud to acknowledge so contemptible a

-      rival. As a Spaniard covers his face with his mantle, I veil my soul with

-      my pride; and, under the mantle of unsuspicion, rest irresolute, while the

-      thing grows.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Once or twice, I have thought of another way&mdash;of taking my wife by

-      the hand and saying, &ldquo;To-morrow, my dear, we shall leave this place, and

-      return to Spain or Italy&mdash;some quiet place abroad.&rdquo; I could easily

-      find an excuse for the migration, which, once effected, would make an end

-      of the affair. But that, in my opinion, would be too cowardly. It would,

-      indeed, be an admission that the danger was real and imminent; that, in

-      other words, the fight for honour could only be saved by an ignominious

-      retreat. No; Ellen Haldane must take her chance. If she is not strong

-      enough to hold out against evil, then let her go&mdash;<i>au bon Dieu</i>

-      or <i>au bon diable</i>, as either leads.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Yet what am I saying? It is precisely because I have the utmost faith in

-      her purity of heart that I watch the struggle with a certain patience. I

-      believe there will be a victim, but not my Ellen. Surely, if there is a

-      good woman in the world, she is that woman. As for the other, every day,

-      every hour, brings the cackling creature further and further into my

-      decoy. Even if he tried to turn back now, I do not think I should let him.

-      No; let him swim in and on, and in and on, till he reaches the place where

-      I, like the decoy man, can catch him fluttering, and&mdash;wring his neck?

-      Perhaps.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It is quite clear that the man takes me for an idiot. At first he used

-      precautions, invented subterfuges; latterly, certain of my stupidity or

-      indifference, he comes and goes without disguise. When I meet him driving

-      side by side of my wife in the phaeton, on some pretended errand of mercy,

-      he gives me a careless bow, a nod. As he goes by my den, on his way to

-      invite her out to visit his sister or his church, he makes no excuse, but

-      passes jauntily, with a conversational pat for the stupid watch-dog: that

-      is all. It would be amusing, I say, if it were not almost insufferable.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      This afternoon, as Ellen was going out, I blankly suggested that she

-      should stay at home.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But you are busy,&rdquo; she said&mdash;&ldquo;always busy with your books and

-      experiments.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not too busy, my dear Nell, for a <i>tête-à-tête</i> with you. Where are

-      you going? To the Vicarage?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;To see the parson, or his sister?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Both. We have a great deal to discuss, about the designs for the new

-      stained-glass windows, which have just come from London.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Very interesting; but they will keep for a day. I fancy I could show you

-      something quite as interesting, in my laboratory.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I hate the laboratory,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;and those horrible experiments.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My dear, you should not hate what your husband loves.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t mean that I hate them, quite; but I think them so useless!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;More useless than stained-glass windows?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It is certainly not useless to beautify the House of God. Oh, I do so

-      wish you could feel as I do about these things! What is the world without

-      them?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Without stained-glass windows?&rdquo; I suggested sarcastically.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She flushed impatiently.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;George, why have you such a dislike for religion? Why do you hate

-      everything I love?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Pardon me, my dear Nell, it was <i>you</i>, not I, that spoke of hating.

-      Philosophers never hate.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But you do worse; you despise it. Thank God we have no children. It would

-      be horrible to tell them that their father forbade them to go to church,

-      or pray!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      It was like a stab into my heart of hearts, that cry of thanks to God.

-      Despite myself, I lost my composure. She saw it instantly, and in the

-      manner of her sex, encroached.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Oh, George, do try to think sometimes of these things, for my sake! You

-      would be so much happier, you surely would have so much more blessing, if

-      you sometimes prayed.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;How do you know that I do not pray?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Because you do not believe.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I do not believe precisely as your priest believes, that is all.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She looked at me eagerly; then, after a moments hesitation, cried&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;George, if I asked a favour, would you grant it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Try.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Let Mr. Santley come sometimes, and speak with you about God!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      This was too much, almost, for even me to bear with equanimity. I am

-      afraid I did not look particularly amiable as I answered, sharp and short,

-      turning from her&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;After all, I think you had better go and look at those designs.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;There, you are angry again!&rdquo; she cried; and I knew by the sound of her

-      voice that her throat was choked with tears. &ldquo;You are always angry when I

-      touch upon religion.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You were not talking of religion,&rdquo; I retorted; &ldquo;you were talking of that

-      man.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why do you dislike him so? Because he is a preacher of the Word?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Because he is a canting hypocrite, like all his tribe,&rdquo; I cried.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She saw that I had lost my temper, as was inevitable, and, sighing deeply,

-      moved to the door. I followed her with my eyes. I would have given the

-      world to call her back; to clasp her in my arms; to tell her my aching

-      fears; to promise her I would worship any God she choose, in any place, in

-      any way, so long as she would only be true, and answer my eager impulse

-      with a little love. But I was too proud for that.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then you are going?&rdquo; I said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She turned, looking at me very sadly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, if you do not mind.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I shrugged my shoulders, and after another sad, reproachful look, she left

-      the room. A minute afterwards, she drove her ponies past the window,

-      without looking up.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <i>Thursday, September</i> 15.&mdash;A golden autumn day, so warm and

-      still that it reminded me of the Indian summer. Not a leaf stirred, but

-      the insects in the air were like floating blossoms, and seemed to sleep

-      upon their wings. Even all round my den the shadows were sultry, and

-      intertangled with slumberous shafts of light.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      This fine weather rather disappointed me, for I had arranged for a day&rsquo;s

-      recreation. In my youth, before I was caught myself in the tedious snares

-      of speculation, I used to be an ardent fisherman, and I still retain

-      sufficient knowledge of the gentle craft to cast a fly tolerably. So,

-      tired of work, and a little weary of my own thoughts, I determined, for

-      the first time, to take advantage of the permission my neighbour, Lord

-      &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;, has given me, and spend a day upon the river

-      banks.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Despite the sunshine, and the absence of even a breath of wind, I

-      shouldered my basket, lifted my rod, and set off. Ellen was already out

-      and about; so I did not see her before I started. Taking a short cut

-      through the shrubberies, I soon came to the banks of the Emmet&mdash;as

-      pretty a little stream as ever rippled over golden sands, or reached out

-      an azure arm to turn some merry watermill. Arrived there, I soon saw that

-      it would be useless to try a cast till there was a little wind; so,

-      without putting my rod together, I strolled on along the river-side, till

-      I was several miles away from the Manor house.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The stream was rather low, but here and there were good deep pools, but so

-      calm, so sunny, that every overhanging tree, every finger of fern, every

-      blade of grass, was reflected in them as in a mirror. Still, as the time

-      was, the waters were full of life. Over the pools hung clusters of flies

-      like glittering spiders&rsquo; webs, scarcely moving in the sunshine; and when,

-      from time to time, a trout rose, he leaped a full foot into the golden air

-      above him, and sank back to coolness beneath an ever-widening ring of

-      light. Sometimes from the grassy edge of the bank a water-rat would slip,

-      swimming rapidly across, with his nose just lifted above the water, and

-      his tail leaving a thin, bright trail. Water-ouzels rose at every curve,

-      following swiftly the winding of the stream; and twice past my feet

-      flashed a kingfisher, like an azure ray.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The way lay sometimes through deep grassy meadows, sometimes by the sides

-      of corn-fields where the sheaves were already slanted, oftentimes through

-      thick shrubberies and woods already yellow with the withering leaf. From

-      time to time I passed a farm, with orchards sloping down to the very

-      water&rsquo;s edge, or pastures slanting down to shallows where the cattle

-      waded, breaking the water to silver streaks and whisking their tails

-      against the clustering swarms of gnats. It was very pleasant and very

-      still, but, from a fishing point of view, exceedingly absurd.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      By-and-by, however, a faint breeze began to touch the pools, and putting

-      my rod together, and selecting my finest casting-line and two tiny flies,

-      I tried a cast. Fortunately the wind was blowing sunward, and as I faced

-      the light, the shadow fell behind me; but, nevertheless, the shadow of my

-      rod flitted about at every cast, and threatened to spoil my sport. My

-      first catch was an innocent baby-fish as big as my thumb, who came at the

-      fly with a rush, and fought desperately when hooked. When I had disengaged

-      him, and put him back into the water, he simply gave a flip of his little

-      tail, and sailed contemptuously and quite leisurely out of sight, making

-      me call to mind, with unusual humiliation, the well-known definition which

-      Dr. Johnson gave of angling&mdash;&ldquo;a fish at one end of the line, and a

-      fool at the other,&rdquo; I had tried a good many, casts before I took my first

-      respectable fish&mdash;a trout of about half a pound. I caught him in a

-      nice broken bit of water, just below a quaint old water-mill; and just as

-      I put him into the basket, the portly miller came out to the granary door,

-      and looked at me with a dusty smile. He evidently thought me a lunatic, to

-      be out with a fishing-rod on such a day.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Half a mile further on I landed another glittering picture of at least a

-      quarter of a pound; after that, another of half a pound; then my luck

-      ceased, the wind fell, and it was full sunshine. By this time I had

-      wandered a good many miles from home, and reached the spot where the river

-      plunges into the Great Omberley woods. Here the stream was so rapid and

-      the boughs so thick, that it was useless to think of casting; so I put up

-      my rod, and, leaping over a fence, rambled away into the woods.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      How strange and dark and still it was, passing out of the sunshine into

-      those shadows, deep and cool as the bottom of the sea! The oak trees

-      stretched their gnarled boughs into the air, and all around them were the

-      lesser trees of the wood-willow, elder, blackthorn, ash, and hazel. The

-      ground beneath was carpeted with moss and grass as thick and soft as

-      velvet, with thick clusters of fern and bluebells round the tree roots,

-      and creepers dangling from every bough. And the wood, like the river, was

-      all alive! Conies tumbled across the patches of light, and flitted in the

-      shadow, like very elves of the woodland; squirrels ran up the gnarled tree

-      trunks; harmless silver snakes glided along the moss; but here and there,

-      swift and ominous, ran a weazel, darting its head this way and that, and

-      fiercely scenting the air, in one eternal glitter and hurry of

-      bloodthirsty emotion. Thrush, blackbird, finch, birds without number, sang

-      overhead; save when the shadow of the wind-hover or the sparrow-hawk

-      passed across the topmost branches, when there was a sudden and respectful

-      silence, to be followed by a precipitate hurry of exultation, as the enemy

-      passed away.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      If I had been a moralist, I might have seen in this wood a microcosm of

-      the world, with its abundant happiness, its beauty, and its dark spots of

-      moral ugliness and cruelty. In you, Signor Weazel (who came so near that I

-      touched you with my rod, which you snapped at ferociously, before bolting

-      swiftly into the deep grass), I might have seen the likeness of a certain

-      sleek creature of my own sex and species, who dwells not very far away.

-      Nevertheless, I let you go in peace; which was no mercy to the conies, I

-      suppose.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      So I entered the Forest Primaeval&mdash;or such it seemed to me, as the

-      blaze of sunshine faded, the boughs thickened, the air became full of dark

-      shadows and ominous silence. My steps were now deep in grass and fern, and

-      the scent of flowers and weeds was thick in my nostrils, but I chose a

-      path where the boughs were thinnest, and quietly pushed through. While

-      thus I rambled, I suppose that I fell, philosopher like, into a dream; at

-      any rate, I seemed to lose all count of time.=

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The world, the life of men, dissolved away

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Into a sense of dimness,

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      as some poet sings. I felt primaeval&mdash;archetypal so to speak, till a

-      sudden&rsquo; shifting of the vegetable kaleidoscope recalled from thoughts of

-      Plato and the Archetype to a cruel consciousness of self.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I was moving slowly on, when I heard the sound of voices quite close to

-      me. I paused, listening, and only just in time, for in another moment I

-      should have been visible to the speakers. Well shrouded in deep foliage, I

-      looked out to discover what sylvan creatures were disporting themselves in

-      that lonely place; and I saw&mdash;what shall I say? A nymph and a satyr?

-      a dryad and a goatfooted Faun?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Just beyond me, there was a broad-green road through the woodland, deeply

-      carpeted with soft grass, but marked here and there with the broad track

-      of a wood-waggon; and on the side of this solitary road, on a rude seat

-      fashioned of two oaken stumps and a rough plank, the nymph was sitting.

-      She wore a light dress of some soft material, a straw hat, a country

-      cloak, and gloves of Paris kid&mdash;a civilized nymph, as you perceive!

-      To complete her modern appearance, she carried a closed parasol, and a

-      roll which looked like music.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      How pretty she looked, with the warm light playing upon her delicate

-      features, and suffusing her form in its delicate drapery; with the

-      semi-transparent branches behind her, and flowers of the woodland at her

-      feet!

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XXVII. THE NOTE-BOOK CONTINUED NYMPH AND SATYR.

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>nd the satyr? Ah!

-      I knew him at a glance, despite the elegant modern boots used to disguise

-      the cloven foot.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He wore black broadcloth and snowy linen, too, and a broad-brimmed

-      clerical hat. His face was seraphically pale, but I saw (or fancied I saw)

-      the twinkle of the hairy ears of the ignoble, sensual, nymph-compelling,

-      naiad-pursuing breed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He was talking earnestly, with gestures of eager entreaty; for the nymph

-      was crying, and he was offering her some kind of consolation.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Presently he sat down by her side, and threw his arms around her. She

-      disengaged herself from his embrace, and rose trembling to her feet.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t touch me!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;That is all over now. I cannot bear it!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He rose also, and stood regarding her, not with the rapturous eyes&rsquo; of a

-      lover, but with a dark and gloomy gaze. Then he said, in a low voice,

-      something which I could not catch. But I heard her passionate reply.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, it is all over,&rdquo; she cried; &ldquo;and I shall never be at peace again.

-      Even, if you kept your word, it would be the same. You do not love me; you

-      never loved me&mdash;never!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I crept a little closer, for I was anxious to hear his answer.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I do love you, Edith; and after what has passed between us&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She shrank away with a faint, despairing cry, and put her hand to her

-      face.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;After what has passed between us, do you think that my love can change?

-      But you are unjust to me, to yourself; too violent and too hard to please.

-      I do not like to be suspected, to be watched; and it is painful to me,

-      very painful, to be constantly called to an account by you. It is not

-      reasonable. Even as your husband, I would not bear it; it would poison the

-      peace between us, and convert our married life into a simple hell!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He paused; but her only answer was a sob of pain. So he sermonized on:

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Between man and woman, Edith, there should be solemn confidence and

-      trust. When that ceases, love is sure to cease. Why, look at me! My trust

-      in you is so absolute that no action of yours could shake it; no matter

-      how peculiar were the circumstances, I should be certain of your faith,

-      your goodness. That is true love&mdash;absolute, implicit faith in the

-      beloved object. I wish I could persuade you to imitate it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You know that you can trust me,&rdquo; sobbed the poor child, &ldquo;because I have:

-      <i>proved</i> my love.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Have I not proved mine?&rdquo; he cried, with irritation. &ldquo;Have I not made

-      sacrifice upon sacrifice for your sake? Have I not remained here, in this

-      wretched country place, when I could have been promoted to other and

-      greater spheres of action? Have I not made you my companion, my

-      confidante, my nearest and dearest friend? Edith, why do you persist in

-      such accusations? What must I do to signify our attachment? Shall I marry

-      you at once? Speak the word, and although, as you know, it would involve

-      the ruin of all my worldly projects, I will do as you desire.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I had-heard enough to convince me that the affair under discussion was no

-      affair of mine, and that I had no right to continue playing the spy; so I

-      was drawing back as gently as possible, and about to return the way I

-      came, when I was suddenly arrested by the next words spoken.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Give up Mrs. Haldane!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I The nymph was the speaker. She stood with her wild eyes fixed upon the

-      other&rsquo;s face, which did not improve in beauty of expression. For myself, I

-      started, stung to the quick; then I returned, trembling, to my place of

-      espionage.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Give up Mrs. Haldane!&rdquo; repeated the girl. &ldquo;I ask nothing more than that.

-      I will not force you to marry me, Charles, till it is for your good;

-      indeed, if I did, I know that we should be unhappy, and that you would

-      never forgive me. But you can at least cease to be so familiar with Mrs.

-      Haldane.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He had discovered by this time, I suppose, that the pleading mood availed

-      him little; at all events, he suddenly changed his tone, and with a cry of

-      angry indignation, he exclaimed&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Edith, take care! I have told you that I will not suffer it! How dare you

-      suspect that lady! How dare you!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      And he stood towering over her (the satyr!) in the fulness of his snowy

-      shirtfront and the whiteness of his moral indignation.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It is no use being angry,&rdquo; she returned, with a certain stubbornness,

-      though I could see that she was cowed, in the manner of gentle women, by

-      his violent physical passion. &ldquo;After what you have told me, after what I

-      have seen&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Edith, again, take care!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You are always with her,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;night-time and day-time. I am

-      amazed that Mr. Haldane does not notice it. It is the talk of the place.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      With another exclamation, he turned his back and walked rapidly away.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Come back!&rdquo; she cried hysterically. &ldquo;If you leave like that, I will drown

-      myself in the river.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He returned and faced her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You will drive me mad!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I am sick of it. I am more like a slave

-      than a free man. You will not suffer me even to have a friend.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;She is more than a friend. You have told me yourself, that you loved

-      her.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And so I did,&rdquo; he answered, &ldquo;though of course she is nothing to me <i>now</i>.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why are you always with her?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am interested in her, deeply interested. She is unhappy with her

-      husband, and as a minister of the gospel&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      With her tearful, truthful eyes, fixed so earnestly upon him, no wonder he

-      paused and blushed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Charles, do not be a hypocrite! At least be honest. She is more to you

-      than a friend.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He raised his hands heavenward, in pulpit fashion, and protested.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Edith, I swear to you before God, that there is nothing whatever between

-      us. She is a stainless lady, her husband does not understand her, I am her

-      spiritual friend and guide.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, Charles; I understand,&rdquo; she said, still earnestly watching him. &ldquo;<i>Justus

-      you were mine!</i>&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I think it worth while to put that little sentence in italics. It was a

-      home stroke, and took away the satyr&rsquo;s breath.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Edith, for shame!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;You know you do not mean what you say. If I

-      thought you meant it, I should break with you for ever. I tell you again,

-      Mrs. Haldane is above reproach, and it is simply disgraceful to couple her

-      name, in such a manner, with mine. And you would infer, now, that I have

-      influenced your own life for evil; you would mock at my spiritual

-      pretensions, and brand me as a base, unworthy creature. Well, Edith,

-      perhaps you are right. Perhaps I have given you cause. I have shown you

-      that I love you, beyond position, beyond the world, beyond even my own

-      self-respect, and this is my return.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I could have sprung out and strangled the fellow, he was so cruel and yet

-      so plausible, so superbly selfish and yet so completely self-deceiving;

-      and I saw that with every word he uttered he gained a fresh hold over the

-      heart of the pretty fool who was listening. While he spoke, she sobbed as

-      if her little heart was ready to break; and when he ceased, she eagerly

-      held out her arms.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Oh, Charles, don&rsquo;t say that! Don&rsquo;t say that my love has been a curse to

-      you!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You drive me to say it,&rdquo; he answered moodily; &ldquo;you make me miserable with

-      your jealousy, your suspicion.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t say that I make you miserable&mdash;don&rsquo;t!&rdquo; she sobbed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You used to be so different,&rdquo; he continued, still preserving his tone of

-      moral injury; &ldquo;you used to be so interested in my work, my daily duties.

-      Now, you do nothing but reproach me; and why? Because I have found an old

-      friend, who happens to be of your own sex, but who is far above the folly

-      of a meaningless flirtation, and who little deserves the cruel slur you

-      cast upon her. Am I, then, to have no friends, no acquaintances? Is every

-      step I take to be measured by the unreasoning suspicion of a jealous

-      woman?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      By this time she had put her arms about his neck, and was sobbing on his

-      breast.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Oh, Charles, don&rsquo;t be so hard with me! It is all because I love you&mdash;ah,

-      so much!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But you should conquer these wicked feelings&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I try! I try!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You should have more confidence, more faith. You know how much I care for

-      you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes; but sometimes I feel afraid. Mrs. Haldane is so much cleverer, so

-      much more beautiful, than I am, and she was your first love. They say men

-      never love twice.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That is nonsense, Edith.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But you do love me, dear? you do?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Ugh, the satyr! He answered her with kisses, straining her to his heart

-      and she, sobbing and clinging round him, was quite conquered. I felt sick

-      to see her at his mercy. Then their voices sank, and he whispered, and I

-      saw the bright blood mount to her cheek and brow. But, alas! she did not

-      shrink away any more.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Then whispering and kissing, with eyes of passion fixed upon one another,

-      they moved away, taking a lonely path into the woods beyond me. My first

-      impulse was to follow them, and to tear them asunder. But after all, I

-      reflected it was no affair of mine, and I knew now, moreover, that nothing

-      in the world would save her from him&mdash;or from herself. .

-    </p>

-    <h3>

-      END OF VOL. II.

-    </h3>

-    <div style="height: 6em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-<pre>

-

-

-

-

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