Читать книгу Foxglove Manor, Volume III (of III) - Robert W Buchanan - Страница 2

Mrs. Haldane had not exaggerated when, in her cross-examination of the vicar, she had described his intimate friendship to Miss Dove as the common talk of the parish. There beats about the life of an English clergyman a light as fierce, in its small way, as that other light which, according to the poet,=

````”… beats about the throne,

````And blackens every blot!”=

Charles Santley was very much mistaken if he imagined that his doings altogether escaped scandal. As usual, however, the darkest suspicions and ugliest innuendoes were reserved for the lady; and before very long Edith Dove was the subject of as pretty a piece of scandal as ever exercised the gossips of even an English village.

Now, the thing was a long time in the air before it reached the ears of the person most concerned. Tongues wagged, fingers pointed, all the machinery of gossip was set in motion for months before poor Edith had any suspicion whatever. Gradually, however, there came upon her the consciousness of a certain social change. Several families with which she had been on intimate terms showed, by signs unmistakable, their desire to avoid her visits, and their determination not to return them. One virtuous spinster, on whom she had expended a large amount of sympathy, not to speak of tea and sugar, openly cut her one morning at the post-office; and even the paupers of the village showed in their bearing a certain lessening of that servility which, in the mind of a properly constituted British pauper, indicates respect. Things were becoming ominous, when, late one evening, her aunt boldly broached the subject.

Edith had taken her hat and cloak, and was going out, when the old lady spoke.

“Where are you going so late? I hope – not down to the Vicarage?” Edith turned in astonishment.

“Yes, I am going there,” she replied.

“Then listen to my advice: take off your things and stay at home.”

The tone was so decided, the manner so peculiar, that Edith was startled in spite of herself. Before she could make any remark, her aunt continued —

“Sit down and listen to me. I mean to talk to you, for no one has a better right; and if I can put a stop to your folly, I will. Do you know the whole place is talking of you – that it has been talking of you for months? Yes, Edith, it is the truth; and I am bound to say you yourself are the very person to blame.”

Almost mechanically, Edith took off her hat and threw it on the table. Then she looked eagerly at her aunt.

“What do they say about me?” she cried.

“They say you are making a fool of yourself; but that is not all. They say worse – horrible things. Of course I know they are untrue, for you were always a good girl; but you are sometimes so indiscreet. When a young girl is always in the company of a young man, even a clergyman, and nothing comes of it, people will talk. Take my advice, dear, and put an end to it at once!”

Edith smiled – a curious, far-off, bitter smile. She was not surprised at her aunts warning; for she had expected it a long time, and had been rather surprised that it had not come before.

“Put an end to what?” she said quietly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know well enough, Edith.”

“Indeed I do not. If people talk, that is their affair; but I shall do as I please.”

And she took up her hat again, as if to go.

“Edith, I insist! You shall not go out to-night. It is shameful for Mr. Santley to encourage you! If you only knew how people talk! You are not engaged to Mr. Santley, and I tell you it is a scandal!”

Edith flushed nervously, as she replied: —

“There is no scandal, aunt! Mr. Santley – ”

“I have no patience with him. In a minister of the gospel, it is disgraceful.”

“What is disgraceful?”

“The encouragement he gives you, when he knows he has no intention of marrying you.”

“How do you know that?” said Edith again, with that far-off curious smile.

“He has not even proposed; you are not engaged? If you were, it would be different.”

With a quiet impulse of tenderness, Edith bent over her aunt and kissed her. The old lady looked up in surprise, and saw that her niece’s eyes were full of tears.

“Edith, what is it? What do you mean?”

“That we have been engaged a long time.”

“And you did not tell me?”

“He did not want it known, and even now it is a secret. You must promise to tell no one.”

“But why? There is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“It is his wish,” said the girl, gently.

Then kissing her aunt again, and leaving her much relieved in mind, she went away, strolling quietly in the direction of the Vicarage. As she walked, her tears continued to fall, and her face was very sorrowful; for there lay upon her spirit a heavy shadow of terror and distrust. With how different an emotion had she, only a year before, flown to meet the man she loved! How eagerly and gladly, then, he had awaited her coming! And now? Alas, she did not even know if she would find him at all. Sometimes he seemed to avoid her, to be weary of her company. All was so changed, she reflected, since the Haldanes came-home to the Manor. He was no longer the same, and she herself was different. Would it ever end? Would she ever be happy again?

The shadows of night were falling as she walked through the lanes, with her eyes sadly fixed on the dim spire of the village church. Close to a plantation on the roadside, she encountered a woman and a man in conversation. She recognized the woman at a glance, as Sal Bexley, the black sheep of the parish, who got her living by singing-from one public-house to another; and she had passed by without a word, when a voice called her.

“Here, mistress!”

She turned, and encountered a pair of bold black eyes. Sal, the pariah, stood facing her, swinging her old guitar and grinning mischievously.

“I’m afraid you’re growing proud, mistress. You didn’t seem to know me.”

There was something sinister in the girl’s manner. Edith drew aside, and would have passed on without any reply, but the other ran before her and blocked the way.

“No, you don’t go like that. I want a word with thee, my fine lady. Ah, you may toss your bead, but you’d best bide a bit, and listen.”

“What do you want? I cannot stay.”

“No call to hurry,” cried Sal, with a coarse laugh. “Thy man’s out, and don’t expect thee. Belike he’s gone courting some one else. Ah, he’s a rum chap, the minister, though he do set up for a saint.”

Edith shuddered and shrank back.

“Go away,” she said. “How dare you speak to me like that?”

“Dare? That’s a good one! No, you shan’t pass till I’ve done wi’ thee.” Edith was getting positively frightened, for the girl’s manner was so rude and threatening, when she saw a tall figure approaching, and in a moment recognized the clergyman. He was close to them, and paused in astonishment at seeing the two together.

“Miss Dove! Is anything the matter? Why are you here, so late, and in such company?”

He paused, looking suspiciously at Sal, who laughed impudently.

“I was passing by, and she stopped me. Do send her away!”

“Send me away?” cried the pariah. “I’ll come when I please, and I’ll go when I please. I’m as good as she.” Mr. Santley stepped forward, and placed his hand on her arm.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were far away.”

“So I were; but I’ve come back. Well?”

“Remember what I told you. I will not have my parish disgraced any longer by your conduct. I have warned you repeatedly before. Where are you staying?”

“Down by the river-side, master. I’ve joined the gipsies, d’ye see.”

“Always an outcast,” said Santley, with, a certain gloomy pity. “Will nothing reform you?”

“No, master,” answered the girl, grinning. “I’m a bad lot.”

“I’m afraid you are.”

“But mind this,” she continued, with some vehemence, “there’s others, fine ladies too, as bad as me. Though I like a chap, and ain’t afraid to own it, and though I gets my living anyhow, I’m no worse than my betters, master. You’ve no cause to bully me, so don’t try it on, master. I can speak when I like, and I can hold my tongue when I like. Gi’ me a guinea, and I’ll hold my tongue.”

She held out her brown hand, leering up into his face.

“What do you mean?” he exclaimed. “I shall give you no money.”

She looked round at Edith, who stood by trembling.

“Tell him he’d best, mistress – for thy sake! Come, it’s worth a guinea! There’s many a folk hereabouts would gi’ five, to see what I saw t’other day, down to Omberley wood.”

Edith started in a new terror, while her face flushed scarlet and her head swam round. Santley winced, but preserving his composure, looked fixedly and sternly at the outcast.

“You’re a bold hussy,” he said, between his set teeth, “as bold as bad. But take care! Do you know that if I only say one word, I can have you up before the magistrates and sent back to prison?”

“What for?” snarled the girl.

“For vagrancy, begging, and threatening a lady on the roadside!”

“A pretty lady. And I bean’t begging, neither. Well, send me to prison, and when I’m up before the magistrates, I’ll tell’em why you were down upon me. Come!”

Santley was about to reply angrily, when Edith interposed. Trembling and almost fainting, she had taken out her purse.

“Here is some money,” she cried; “give it to her and let her go!”

“She does not deserve a farthing,” exclaimed Santley. “Still, if you wish it – ”

“Yes, yes! I – I am sorry for her.”

Santley opened the purse, and took out a sovereign.

“If I give you this, will you promise to go out of the parish?”

“Maybe.”

“And to conduct yourself properly – to turn over a new leaf?”

Sal grinned viciously from ear to ear.

“I take example by you, master, and your young lady there! Leastways, if I do go a-larking I’ll be like you gentry, and say naught about it. There, gi’ me the guinea! Stop, though, make it two, and I’ll go away out o’ Omberley this very night.”

Santley and Edith rapidly exchanged a look, and a second piece of gold was at once added to the first. Then, after giving Sal a few words of solemn warning, in his priestly character, Santley walked away with Edith. The pariah girl watched them until they disappeared; then, with a low laugh, she rejoined her companion, a one-eyed and middle-aged gipsy, who, during the preceding scene, had phlegmatically stretched himself on his back, along the roadside.