Читать книгу Foxglove Manor, Volume II (of III) - Robert W Buchanan - Страница 4

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.