Читать книгу Foxglove Manor - Robert Williams Buchanan - Страница 10

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The vicar was standing close beside the village school, and as he turned to go back home he saw the schoolmistress in the doorway of her little cottage. He started as though she had been looking into his heart, instead of watching the carriage as it bowled along towards the village. Without a moment’s hesitation, however, he opened the schoolyard gate and went up to her.

“Well, Miss Greatheart, how are you to-day?”

Dora, a bright, merry-looking woman of about thirty, dropped a curtsy, and invited the vicar into the house.

“Thank you, no; I must not stay. I have just been speaking, as you have seen, to my new parishioners. I call them new, though I suppose they are older in the parish than I am myself.”

“Old as they are, this is the first time I ever set eyes on Mr. Haldane in our church, sir. His pretty wife must have converted him.”

“Then they have not been long married?”

“Somewhere about two years, I should think. All last year they were away in Egypt and Palestine; and perhaps now that he’s seen the Land, he believes in the Book.”

“Indeed!”

“Seeing’s believing, you know, sir; and if all tales be true, he used not to believe in anything from the roof upward. Oh, you may well look shocked, sir, but he was quite an atheist and an infidel; but you see he was so rich that the gentry round about didn’t care to give him the go-by. I suppose you haven’t been to the Manor yet, sir? The old vicar, Mr. Hart, was always there. People did say he paid more court to the people at the Manor than he should have done, considering the need for him in the parish; and when Mr. Hart got his second stroke, there were those that said it was a judgment on him for high living, and the company he kept. But you know, sir, how folks’ tongues will wag.”

“Is the Manor far from here? Of course I have heard of the place, but I have never been near it.”

“It’s about four miles, sir, and a lonely place it is, and dismal it must be in winter, with miles of wood about it. In summer it is not so bad, but it is awfully wild and solitary. I went over the grounds once, years ago. I became acquainted with one of the housemaids, you see, sir—quite a nice young person—and she invited me to tea. I remember it was getting dusk when I left, and she took me through the woods. Dear me, what a fright I got! I happened to look up, and there was a man, quite a giant, standing among the trees. I screamed, and would have run had not Jane—that was the maid, sir—laughed, and said it was only a statue. And so it was, for we went right up to it. All the woods are full of statues—quite improper and rude, and rather frightening to meet in the dusk. But now he is converted, Mrs. Haldane will have them all taken away, I should think. I don’t believe the place is haunted, though there are some strange stories told about it; but I do know that the chapel—there is an old chapel close by the house—is shut up, and no one goes near it but Mr. Haldane and his valet—a dark foreign person, with such eyes! Queer tales are told about lights being seen in it at all hours of the night, and some of the old folk believe that if any one could look in they would see that the foreign valet had horns and a cloven foot, and that his master was worshipping him. I think that’s all nonsense myself; but there’s no doubt Mr. Haldane used to be dreadfully wicked, and an atheist.”

“If he was so very bad,” said the vicar, smiling, “surely it was strange that Mr. Hart used to associate with him so much.”

“Well, you see, sir, he was always liberal, and kept a good table, and Mr. Hart was a cheerful liver. Then Mr. Haldane was always ready with his purse when there was a hard winter, or the crops were bad, or any poor person was ill.”

“I see, I see,” said the vicar.

“But his charity could not do him any good, people said, when he didn’t believe there was a God, or that he had a soul.”

“So they didn’t consider it worth while to be thankful?”

“I don’t think they did, sir.”

“And was Mrs. Haldane staying at the Manor the first year of their marriage?”

“Yes; he brought her back with him after the honeymoon.”

“And do they speak as kindly of her in the village as they do of her husband?”

“Oh, indeed, sir, they worship her. Even old Mother Grimsoll, who said she wanted to make a charity woman of her when you bought her that scarlet cloak last winter, has a good word for Mrs. Haldane. She isn’t the least bit conceited, and she knows that poor people have their proper pride; and when she helps any one she makes them feel that they are doing her a favour. When Mr. Hart was alive she used to go round with him, devising and dispensing charities. It’s only a pity she is married to—to—“—and Miss Greatheart beat impatiently on the ground with her foot in the effort to recall the word—“to an agnostic. Mr. Hart said he wasn’t an atheist, but an agnostic, though I dare say if the truth were known one is worse than the other.”

“You are not very charitable, Miss Greatheart; come, now, confess,” said the vicar, good-humouredly.

“Perhaps not, sir; but I have no patience with atheists and agnostics.”

“An atheist,” continued the vicar, “is a person who does not believe in a God; an agnostic is one who merely says he does not know whether there is a God or not.”

“Doesn’t know!” exclaimed Dora, indignantly. “Wherever was the man brought up?”

That evening, as Miss Santley and Edith went across from the church to the Vicarage together, the vicar joined them, and Miss Dove remained to supper as usual. The time passed pleasantly enough; but Edith was conscious of a certain restraint, in the conversation, a curious chilliness in the atmosphere. When at length she rose to go home, the vicar went to the window, and looked out for a few seconds.

“I think, Mary, you might accompany us; and when we have seen Miss Edith home, we could take a turn round together. It is a beautiful night.”

Mary nodded assent, and Edith felt her heart sink within her. She was certain now that he was avoiding her. As she followed Miss Santley upstairs to put on her things, a sudden thought flashed upon her.

“I shall be with you in a moment, Mary,” she said; “I have dropped my handkerchief, I think.”

She ran back to the parlour, and met the vicar face to face as he paced the room.

She stood still, and looked at him silently for a moment. She had taken him by surprise, and he too stood motionless.

“Well,” he said at last, with a faint smile.

“Do you hate me, Charles?” she asked in a low, steady voice.

“Hate you! Why should I hate you, my dear Edith? What should put such thoughts——”

“I have only a few seconds to speak to you,” Miss Dove continued hastily. “Answer me truly and directly. You do not hate me?”

“I shall never hate you, dear.”

“ ‘Why do you avoid me?”

“Have I avoided you?”

“You know you have. Why?”

“I have not avoided you, Edith.”

“Do you still love me?”

“You know I do.”

“As much as ever you did?”

“As much as ever.”

“Can I see you to-morrow—alone?”

“You know I am going to the Manor.”

“I know,” said Edith, with a slight tone of bitterness. “You will return in the evening, I suppose? I shall wait for you on the road till nine o’clock.”

“I may be detained, you know, Edith.”

“Then I shall be practising in the church on Tuesday afternoon as usual.”

“Very well,” he assented.

“Am I still to trust you, Charles?” she asked, raising her soft blue eyes earnestly to his face.

“Yes.”

“Yes?” She dwelt upon the word, still looking fondly up to him. He understood her, and bent over and kissed her.

“You will try to return home tomorrow before nine? I have been miserable all this week, and I have so much to say to you.”

“I will try to see you,” said the vicar.

“I must run now; Mary will wonder what has kept me.”

The great woods about Foxglove Manor were certainly lovely, and in the winter, with the snow on their black branches, and snow on the fallen leaves and the open spaces between the clumps of forestry, the place might have seemed dreary and dismal; but on this July afternoon the vicar experienced an indescribable sense of buoyancy and enlargement among these vast tossing masses of foliage. Their incessant murmur filled the air with an inarticulate music, which recalled to his memory the singing pines of Theocritus and the voices of the firs of the Hebrew prophets. A spirit of romance for ever haunts the woodland, as though the olden traditions of dryad and sylvan maiden had not yet been wholly superseded by the more accurate report of science. In the skirts of the great clusters of timber, cattle were grazing in groups of white and red; in the open spaces of pasture land between wood and wood, deer were visible among the patches of bracken. In the depths of the forest ways he came upon the colossal statues copied from the old masters; and at length, at a turn of the shadowy road, he found himself in view of the mansion—an ancient, square mass of brown sandstone, stained with weather and incrustations of moss and lichens, and covered all along the southern exposure with a dense growth of ivy. The grounds immediately in front were laid out in formal plots for flowers and breadths of turf traversed by gravelled pathways. A little withdrawn from the house stood the ruined chapel of which the schoolmistress had spoken. The ivy had invaded it, and scaled every wall to the very eaves, while patches of stonecrop and houseleek, which had established themselves on the slated roof, gave it a singular aspect of complete abandonment.

As Mr. Santley entered one of the walks which led to the terraced entrance, Mrs. Haldane, who had observed his approach, appeared on the stone steps, and descended to meet him.

“How good of you to come so early!” she exclaimed. “George will be delighted. He is in his laboratory, experimenting as usual. We shall join him, after you have had some refreshment.”

“No refreshment for me, thank you.”

“Are you quite sure? You must require something after so long a walk.”

“Nothing really, I assure you.”

“Well, I shall not press you, as we shall have dinner soon. Shall we go to Mr. Haldane? Have you visited the Manor before—not in our absence? How do you like it?”

“I envy you your magnificent woods.

“Yes; are they not charming? And you will like the house, too, when you have seen it.”

“Do you not find it dull, however?” asked the vicar, looking into her face with an expression of keen scrutiny. “You are still young—in the blossom of your youth—and society must still have its attractions for you.”

“One enjoys society all the more after a little seclusion.”

“No doubt.”

“And we have just returned, you must recollect, from a whole year of wandering and sight-seeing, so that it is a positive relief to awaken morning after morning and find the same peaceful landscape, the same quiet woods about one.”

“That is very natural; but the heart does not long remain content with the unchanging face of nature, however beautiful it may be. Even the best and strongest require sympathy, and when once we become conscious of that want——”

“Have you begun to feel it?” she asked suddenly, as he paused.

“I suppose it is the inevitable experience of a clergyman in a country parish,” he replied, with a smile.

“Yes, I suppose it is. So few can take an interest in your tastes, and aspirations, and intellectual pleasures, and pursuits. Is not that so?”

“It may seem vanity to think so.”

“Oh no; I think not. The people you meet every day are mostly concerned in their turnips or the wheat or their cattle, and their talk is the merest village gossip. It must indeed be very depressing to listen day after day to nothing but that. One has, of course, a refuge in books.”

“But books are not life. The daydreams of the library are a poor substitute for the real action of a mans own heart and brain.”

“Then one has also the great fields of natural science to explore. I think you will find the work of my husband interesting, and if you could turn your mind in the same direction, you would find in him inexhaustible sympathy.”

As she spoke, they reached the low-arched portal of the chapel. The thick oaken door, studded with big iron nails, was open, and before them stood a man who bowed profoundly to Mrs. Haldane, and then darted a swift, penetrating glance at the vicar.

“Mr. Haldane is within, Baptisto?” she asked.

“Yes, senora.”

He stood aside to allow them to pass, and as Mr. Santley entered he regarded the man with an eye which photographed every feature of his dark Spanish face. It was a face which, once seen, stamped itself in haunting lineaments on the memory. A dusky olive complexion; a fierce, handsome mouth and chin; a broad, intelligent forehead; short, crisp black hair sprinkled with grey; a thin, black moustache, twisted and pointed at the ends; and a pair of big, black, unfathomable eyes, filled with liquid fire. It was the man’s eyes that arrested the attention first, gave character not only to the face but to the man himself, and indeed served to identify him. In the village, “the foreign gentleman with the eyes” was the popular and sufficient description of Baptisto.