{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_48471/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_48471","id":"gutenberg_48471","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/48471","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Category: Romance","Clergy -- Fiction","England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction","Man-woman relationships -- Fiction","Religious fiction"],"text":"FOXGLOVE MANOR\n\nA Novel\n\nBy Robert W. Buchanan\n\nIn Three Volumes, Vol. I.\n\nLondon\n\nChatto And Windos, Piccadilly\n\n1884\n\n\n\n\nPREFATORY NOTE.\n\nThe following attempt at a tragedy in fiction (a tragedy, however,\nwithout a tragic ending) must not be construed into an attack on the\nEnglish priesthood generally. I have simply pictured, in the Rev.\nCharles Santley, a type of man which exists, and of which I have had\npersonal experience. Fortunately, such men are uncommon; still more\nfortunately, the clergymen of, the English Establishment are for\nthe most part sane and healthy men, too unimaginative for morbid\ndeviations.\n\nROBERT BUCHANAN.\n\n\n\n\nFOXGLOVE MANOR.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I. ST. CUTHBERT\u2019S.\n\n|As the sweet, clear voices of the surpliced choristers rose in the\nclosing verse of the hymn, and the vicar, in his white robe and\nviolet hood, ascended the pulpit steps, old Gabriel Ware, sexton and\ndoorkeeper of St. Cuthbert\u2019s, limped across the pavement and slipped\ninto the porch, as his custom was at sermon-time on Sunday afternoons.\n\nHe waited till the singing had ceased and the congregation had settled\nin their pews; and while he listened to the vicar announcing his\ntext--\u201cFor in Him we live, and move, and have our being\u201d--he fumbled\nin the pockets beneath his black gown of office, and then limped\nnoiselessly out into the sunshine, where, after a glance round him, he\npulled out a short clay pipe, well seasoned, filled it with twist, and\nbegan his usual after-dinner smoke.\n\nIt was a hot, shimmering July afternoon, and it was much pleasanter to\nsit out of doors on a tombstone, listening to the vicars voice as it\ncame though the dark lancets like a sound of running water.\n\nHalf a mile or so away, nestled in trees, was the village of Omberley,\nwith its glimpses of white walls and tiled or slated roofs. Then there\nwere soft, hazy stretches of pasture, with idyllic groupings of cattle\nand sheep and trees. The fields of wheat and barley, turnips and\npotatoes, lay out idle and warm, growing and taking no care, and\napparently causing none. The sight and smell of the land filled\nGabriel with a stolid satisfaction at the order of nature and the\nprovidential gift of tobacco.\n\nThere was but the faintest breeze stirring, and it wafted all manner\nof sweet odours and lulling whispers about the graveyard. Everywhere\nthere was evidence of a fervent throbbing vitality and joyousness. The\nsoft green turf which spread all round the church to the limits of the\nchurchyard, here billowing over a nameless grave, here crusting with\nmoss the base of a tombstone or a marble cross or a pillared urn,\nhere edging round an oblong plot brilliant with flowers and hothouse\nplants,--the very turf seemed stirred by glad impulses, and quivering\nwith a crush of hurrying insect life. Daisies and buttercups and\nlittle blue and pink eyed flowers danced among the restless spears of\ngrass with a merry hardihood. Laburnums and sycamores stood drowsing\nin the hot shining air, but they were not asleep, and were not silent,\nA persistent undertone came from among their shadowy boughs, as if\nthe sap were buzzing through every leaf and stalk. Up their trunks,\ntoiling through the rugged ravines of the rough bark, travelling\nalong the branches, flitting from one cool leaf to another, myriads of\nnameless winged and creeping things went to and fro, and added their\nmurmurs to the vast, vague resonance of life. A soft, ceaseless\nwhispering was diffused from the tall green spires of a row of poplars\nwhich Went along the iron railing that separated the enclosure from\nthe high-road. Blue and yellow butterflies fluttered from one \u2018flowery\ngrave to another; the big booming humble-bee went blundering among the\nblossoms; a grasshopper was: singing shrilly in the bushes near the\nrailing; a laborious caravan of ants was crossing the stony wilderness\nof the gravel path; a dragon-fly hawked to and fro beneath the\nsycamores; small birds dropped twittering on cross or urn for an\ninstant, flashed away up into a tree, and then darted off into the\nfields, as though too full of excitement and gamesomeness to rest more\nthan a moment anywhere. Soft fleecy masses of luminous cloud slumbered\nin the hot blue sky overhead, and only in its remote deeps did there\nseem to be unimpassioned quietude and a sabbath stillness--only there\nand in the church.\n\nNotwithstanding the dazzling sunshine and the heat, the church was\ncool and dim and fragrant. The black and red tiles of the pavement,\nthe brown massive; pillars and airy arches of sandstone, the oaken\npews, the spacious, sanctuary with, its wide, stone steps, affected\none with a. refreshing sense of coolness and comfort. The light\nentered soft and subdued through richly stained glass, for the windows\nlooked, not on familiar breadths, of English landscape glowing\nand ripening in the July sun, but seemed rather to open into the\nstrangely coloured world of nineteen centuries ago. The blessing of\nthe little children, the raising of Lazarus, the interview at the well\nwith the woman of Samaria, the minstrel rout about the house of the\nruler whose little maid lay not dead but sleeping, took the place\nof the mundane scenes beheld through unhallowed windows. Even the\nunpictured lancets were filled with leaded panes of crimson and blue\nand gold. Then there was a faint, pleasant odour of incense about the\nbuilding, emphasizing the contrast between the mood of nature and the\nmood of man. St. Cuthberts was floridly ritualistic, and the vicar\nwas one of those who felt that, in an age of spiritual disquiet\nand unbelief, a man cannot cling with too many hands to the great\nRevelation which appeared to be daily growing more elusive, and who\nbelieved that if the soul may be lost, it may also be, in a measure,\nsaved through the senses. Feigned devotions and the absence of any\nappeal to the physical nature of man had, he was convinced, drawn\ninnumerable souls into indifference on the one hand, and into\nCatholicism on the other. If there was a resurrection of the body as\nwell as of the soul, surely the body ought not to be abandoned as a\nthing accursed, from which no good can come. The vicar encountered no\ndifficulty in realize ing his views of the dignity of flesh and blood\nat St. Cuthbert\u2019s.\n\nA thick, softly toned carpet lay on the broad stone steps which led\nup to the communion table. Behind the communion table, and for some\ndistance to right and left, the sanctuary walls were hung with richly\ncoloured tapestry. The table itself--or the altar, as it was usually\ncalled--was draped with violet silk, embroidered with amber crosses,\nand upon it stood a large crucifix of brass, with vases of flowers,\nand massive brazen candlesticks on either side. In the centre a\nlarge brass gasalier was suspended from a large ring, containing\nan enamelled cross, and beneath it hung an oil-lamp, which was kept\nperpetually burning. Amid all the coolness and fragrance and mystical\nflush of colour, that little leaf of flame floating in its glass cup\nattracted the attention of the stranger most singularly. It piqued the\nimagination, and added an indescribable feeling of hallowed sorcery to\nthe general effect, which was that of an influence too spiritual\nnot to excite reverence, but too sensuous to be considered sacred.\nStepping out of the churchyard, with its throbbing warmth and glad\nundertones of commotion, into the cool, soft-lighted, artificially\ncoloured atmosphere of the church, one might have felt as if\ndropped into the Middle Ages, but for the modern appearance of the\ncongregation.\n\nSt. Cuthbert\u2019s was the fashionable place of worship at Omberley, and\nits afternoon service was always well attended, though at a glance\none perceived, from the chromatic effect of the pews, that the large\nmajority of the congregation were of the more emotional sex. As the\nvicar gave out his text, his taste for the bright and beautiful must\nhave been gratified by the flowers and feathers and dainty dresses,\nand still more by the rows of young and pretty faces which were raised\ntowards the pulpit with such varied expression of interest, affection,\nand admiration.\n\nThe Rev. Charles Santley had been Vicar of St. Cuthbert\u2019s for little\nless than a year. He was unmarried, just turned thirty, a little over\nthe middle height, and remarkably handsome. It was not to be wondered\nat that, with such recommendations, the new vicar had at the very\noutset fascinated the maids and matrons of his congregation. A bright\nshapely face, with soft dark eyes, a complexion almost feminine in its\nclear flush, a broad scholarly forehead, black hair slightly thinned\nwith study on the brow and at the temples, black moustache and short\ncurling black beard,--such was the face of the vicar as he stood\nuncovered before you. His voice was musical and sympathetic; the\npressure of his hand invited confidence and trust; his soft dark eyes\nnot only looked into your heart, but conveyed the warmth and eagerness\nof his own; you felt instinctively that here you might turn for help\nwhich would never be found wanting, and seek advice that would never\nlead you astray, appeal for sympathy with a certainty that you would\nbe understood, obey the prompting to transfer the burthen of spiritual\ndistress with a sure knowledge that your self-esteem would never be\nwounded. Of course there were ladies of a critical and censorious\ndisposition among his flock, but even these were forced to acknowledge\nthe charm of his presence and the kindliness of his disposition. Among\nthe men he was less enthusiastically popular, as was natural enough;\nbut he was still greatly liked for his frankness and cordiality, and\nhis keen intellect and sterling common sense commanded their respect.\n\nOn one thing you might always reckon at St. Cuthbert\u2019s--a thoughtful,\neloquent sermon, delivered in a voice full of exquisite modulations.\nIt happened often enough that the preacher forgot the capacities of\nhis hearers, and became dreamy and mystical; but, though you failed to\ncomprehend, you were conscious that the fault lay less with him than\nwith your own smaller spiritual nature. This, too, happened only in\ncertain passages, and never throughout an entire discourse. He began\non the grass, as the lark does, and gradually rose higher and higher\nin the brightening heavens till your vision failed; but, if you waited\npatiently, he descended again to earth, still singing.\n\nOn this Sunday afternoon, preaching from the text in the Acts, he\nheld his hearers spell-bound at the outset. Referring to the memorable\ndiscourse in which the text occurs, he conjured up before them\nAthens--glittering, garrulous, luxurious, profligate--the Athens St.\nPaul had seen. The vivid picture was crowded with magnificent temples,\ncountless altars, innumerable shapes of mortal loveliness. Here\nwas the Agora, with its altar of the Twelve Gods, and its painted\ncloisters, and its plane trees, beneath whose shade were disputing\ngroups of philosophers, in the garb of their various sects. Gods\nand goddesses, in shining marble, in gold and ivory, caught the eye\nwherever it fell. There were altars to Fame and Health and Energy, to\nModesty and Persuasion, to Pity and to Oblivion. On the ledges of the\nprecipitous Acropolis glittered the shrines of Bacchus and \u00c6sc\u00fclapius,\nVenus, Earth, and Ceres. Over all towered the splendid statue of\nPallas, cast from the brazen spoils of Marathon, visible, as it\nflashed in the sun, to the sailor doubling the distant promontory of\nSunium. Every divinity that it had entered into the imagination of man\nto, conceive or the heart of man to yearn for, every deified attribute\nof human nature, had here its shrine or its voluptuous image. \u201cYe men\nof Athens, all things which I behold bear witness to your carefulness\nin religion.\u201d It was easier, said the Roman satirist, to find a god\nthan a man in Athens. And yet these men, with all their civilization,\nwith all their art and poetry and philosophy, had not found God, and,\nnotwithstanding all the statues and altars they had erected, were\naware that they had not found Him; for St. Paul, as he traversed\ntheir resplendent city, and beheld their devotions, had found an altar\nwith this inscription, \u201c_To the Unknown God._\u201d Referring then to\nthose \u201ccertain philosophers of the Epicureans and of the Stoics,\u201d who\nencountered the apostle, he briefly sketched the two great systems of\nGreek speculation, and their influence on the morality of the age: the\npantheism of the Stoics, who recognized in the universe a rational,\norganizing soul which produced all things and absorbed all\nthings,--who perceived in pleasure no good, in pain no evil,--who\njudged virtue to be virtue and vice vice, according as they conformed\nto reason; the materialism of the Epicureans, who perceived in\ncreation a fortuitous concourse of atoms, acknowledged no Godhead,\nor, at best, an unknowable, irresponsible Godhead, throned in happy\nindifference far beyond human imptration,--taught that the soul\nperished as the body perished, and was dissipated like a streak of\nmorning cloud into the infinite azure of the inane. Following Paul as\nthe philosophers \u201ctook him and brought him unto Areopagus,\u201d where from\nimmemorial time the judges, seated on benches hewn out of the rock,\nhad sat under the witnessing heavens, passing sentence on the greatest\ncriminals and deciding the most solemn questions of religion, he\nglanced down once more at the city glittering with temples and\nthronged with gods and goddesses, and bringing into broad contrast\nthe radiant Apollo and the voluptuous Aphrodite, with the scourged and\nthorn-crowned figure on the cross, he read the message of the apostle\nto the pagan world. On how many altars to-day might not the words \u201cTo\nthe Unknown God\u201d be fittingly inscribed! \u201cIn Him we live, and move,\nand have our being;\u201d but how few of us have \u201cfelt after\u201d and found\nHim! In a strain of impassioned eloquence the preacher spoke of that\nunseen sustaining presence, which brooded over and encompassed us; of\nthe yearning of the human heart for communion with the Creator; of the\ncry of anguish which rose from the depths of our being, when our\neyes ached with straining into the night and saw nothing, when our\nquivering hands were reached out into the infinite and clasped but\ndarkness; of the intense need we felt for a personal, tangible,\nsympathetic Being, for an incarnation of the divinity; of those\necstatic ascensions of the soul, in which man \u201cfelt after\u201d and\nactually touched God; and, as he spoke, his glowing words gradually\nceased to convey any definite meaning to the great majority of his\nhearers: but one face, flushed with joyous intelligence, one young\nbeautiful face, with large, liquid blue eyes of worship, and with\neager tremulous lips, was all the while turned fixedly up to his.\n\nSeated in a little curtained nook near the organ, a slim, fair girl\nof two and twenty watched the preacher with almost breathless\nearnestness. She was a bright little fragile-looking blossom of a\nbeing, who seemed scarcely to have yet slipped out of her girlhood.\nHer face was of that delicate white, tinged with a spot of pink, which\nso often indicates a consumptive constitution, but in her case\nthis delicacy of complexion was owing rather to the fineness of the\nmaterial of which nature had moulded her. Light fine hair, in silky\nconfusion rather than curls, clustered about her forehead and temples.\nHer little hands still clasped the music-book from which she had been\nplaying the accompaniment of the hymn--for Edith Dove was the organist\nof St. Cuthbert\u2019s--as though from the outset she had been too absorbed\nto remember that she was holding it.\n\nOccasionally the vicar turned towards the aisle in which she sat, and\nhis glance rested on her for a moment, and each time their eyes met\nEdith\u2019s heart beat more rapidly, and a deeper tinge of rose-colour\nbrightened her cheeks. But Mr. Santley showed no sign of kindred\nemotion; he was wholly absorbed in the fervid thoughts which flowed\nfrom his lips in such strains of exaltation. As his eyes wandered\nover the congregation, however, he suddenly saw another face which was\nturned attentively towards him, and which made him pause abruptly. He\nstopped in the midst of a sentence. He felt the action of his heart\ncease, and he knew that the blood was driven from his cheeks. He\nlooked dazedly down at his manuscript, but was unable to find the\nplace where his memory had failed him. For a few seconds there was\ndead silence in the church, and the eyes of the congregation were\nturned inquiringly towards the pulpit. Then, stammering and flushing,\nhe resumed almost at haphazard. But the enthusiasm of the preacher had\ndeserted him; his attention was distracted by a rush of recollections\nand feelings which he could not banish; the words he had written\nseemed to him foreign and purposeless, and it was only with a resolute\neffort that he constrained himself to read the parallel he had drawn\nbetween the pantheism and materialism of the days of St. Paul and\nthose of our own time. To the close of his sermon he never once\nventured to turn his eyes again in the direction of that face, but\nkept them fixed resolutely upon his manuscript. Not till he had\ndescended the pulpit steps and was crossing the chancel, did he hazard\na glance across the church towards that disquieting apparition.\n\nWhen the service was ended, and the choristers, headed by the\ncross-bearer, had passed in procession down the nave to the vestry,\nthe vicar hastily disrobed and issued into the churchyard. As with a\nstrange fluttering hopefulness he had half anticipated, he was being\nwaited for. A lady was moving slowly about among the graves, pausing\nnow and again to read an inscription on a stone, but keeping a\nconstant observation on the church doors. As he came out of the porch,\nshe advanced to meet him, with a smile upon the face which had so\nterribly disconcerted him. She was a most beautiful, starry-looking\ncreature--a tall, graceful, supple figure, with the exquisitely\nmoulded head of a Greek statue; a ripe rich complexion suffused with\na blush-rose tint; large lovely black eyes full of fire and softness;\nlong, curved, black eyelashes; a profusion of silky black hair parted\nin little waves on a broad, bright forehead; and a pair of sweet, red\nlips.\n\nShe held out a little white hand to him, and, as he took it, their\nfirst words were uttered simultaneously.\n\n\u201cEllen!\u201d\n\n\u201cMr. Santley!\u201d\n\n\u201cI never dreamed,\u201d said the vicar, excitedly, \u201cI never dared to hope,\nto see you again!\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, the world is very small,\u201d she replied gaily, \u201cand people keep\ncrossing each other at the most unexpected times and in the oddest\nof places. But I am so glad to see you. Are you doing well? You can\nscarcely imagine how curious it was when I recognized you to-day. Of\ncourse I had heard your name as our vicar, but I had no idea it could\nbe _you_.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am sure you are not more glad than I am,\u201d rejoined the vicar. \u201cAre\nyou staying at Omberley? Have you friends here?\u201d\n\nShe regarded him for a moment with a mixed expression of surprise and\namusement.\n\n\u201cDo you not know that I am one of your parishioners now?\u201d she asked,\nwith a pleasant laugh.\n\nHe looked wonderingly into her dark, joyous eyes, and felt a sudden\nsense of chill and darkness within him, as a quick intelligence of who\nand what she now was flashed into his mind.\n\n\u201cAre you at the Manor?\u201d he asked, in a low, agitated voice.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d she answered, without noticing his emotion. \u201cWe arrived only\nyesterday, and have hardly had time yet to feel that we are at home;\nbut I could not resist the inclination to see what sort of a church,\nand what sort of a vicar,\u201d she added, with a glance of sly candour,\n\u201cwe had at St. Cuthbert\u2019s. I am really so glad I came. Of course you\nwill call and see us as soon and as often as you can, will you not?\nMr. Haldane will be delighted, I know.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are very kind,\u201d said the vicar, scarcely aware of what he was\nsaying.\n\n\u201cIndeed, I wish to be so,\u201d she replied, smiling. \u201cOf course you know\nMr. Haldane?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting him. He--you had gone\nabroad before I came to Omberley.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen you have not been here long?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot quite a year yet.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd do you like the place--and the people?\u201d\n\n\u201cBoth, very much indeed!\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are not married yet, I think Mr. Haldane said?\u201d\n\nThe vicar looked at her with a sadness that was almost reproachful as\nhe answered, \u201cNo; I have my sister living with me.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow pleasant! You _must_ bring Miss Santley with you when you come,\nwill you not?\u201d\n\nAs she spoke she moved slowly towards the gateway opening on to the\nroad, where a little basket-carriage was awaiting her. He accompanied\nher, and for a few seconds there was silence between them. Then they\nshook hands again before she got into the carriage, and she repeated\nher assurance--\n\n\u201cI am so glad to have met you, Mr. Santley!\u201d\n\nShe took the reins, and, lightly flicking the ponies with the whip,\nflashed upon him a farewell smile from those dark, spiritual eyes and\nlaughing lips.\n\nThe vicar turned back into the churchyard, and following a narrow\npath that led across the sward through a wicket and a small beech\nplantation, entered the Vicarage with a pale, troubled face.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II. AT THE VICARAGE.\n\n|When he reached the house he found that his presence was needed at\nthe bedside of a labourer, who had met with a serious accident a day\nor two before, and who was now sinking rapidly. Mr. Santley was a\nman who never begrudged time or trouble in the interests of his\nparishioners; and, though he had yet another service to attend, and\nwas already fatigued by the work of the day, he readily signified his\nwillingness to comply with the request of the dying man, and at once\nstarted for the village.\n\nHe felt at the moment that the duty placed before him would be a\nrelief from the thronging recollections and the wild promptings which\nhad set his heart and brain in a turmoil. As he went down the road,\nhowever, the face of the dying man who had sent to seek his priestly\naid, and the face of the beautiful wife of the owner of Foxglove\nManor, seemed to be striving for mastery over him; he was unable to\nconcentrate his attention on any subject. His will was in abeyance,\nand he appeared to himself to be in a sort of waking nightmare, in\nwhich the most distorted thoughts of marriage and death, of a lost\nlove and of a lost God, of the mockery of life, the mockery of youth,\nthe mockery of religion, presented themselves before him in a hideous\nmasquerade, till the function he was about to fulfil appeared to him\nat one moment a sacrilege and at another a degrading folly.\n\nTo understand in some degree the vicars mental condition, it is\nnecessary to glance back on his past life. In early manhood Charles\nSantley had been seriously impressed with the sense of a special\nvocation to a religious life. He was the son of a wealthy merchant,\nwhose entire fortune had perished in one of our great commercial\ncrises, and whose death had followed close upon his ruin. Up to that\nperiod Charles had been undecided as to his choice of a pursuit;\nbut the necessity of making an immediate selection resulted in his\ndevoting himself to the Church. Barely sufficient had been saved from\nthe wreck of their property to support his widowed mother and his\nsister. For himself, he was endowed with a splendid physique, a keen\nintellect, and indomitable energy; and he at once flung himself into\nhis new career. He supported himself by teaching until he was admitted\nto orders, when he obtained a curacy, and eventually, through the\ninterest of some old friends of his father, he was presented with the\nliving of St. Cuthbert\u2019s. In the course of these years of struggle,\nhowever, there was gradually developing within the man a spirit which\nthreatened to render his success worse than useless to him. Ardent,\nemotional, profoundly convinced of the eternal truths of revelation\nand of the glorious mission of the Church, the young clergyman was\nat the same time boldly speculative and keenly alive to the grandiose\ndevelopments of the modern schools of thought. It was not till he\nstood on the extreme verge of science and looked beyond that he fully\nrealized his position. He then perceived with horror that it was no\nlonger impossible--that it was even no longer difficult--to regard\nthe great message of redemption as a dream of the world, the glorious\nfaith of Christendom as a purely ethnic mythology, morality as a\nmerely natural growth of a natural instinct of self-preservation.\nIndeed, the difficulty consisted in believing otherwise. The\nFatherhood of a personal God was slipping away from his soul; the\nSonship of a Saviour was melting into a fantastic unreality; the\nconviction of a personal immortality was dissipating into mental mist\nand darkness. The mystery of evil was growing into a fiendish enigma;\nvirtue passed him, and showed herself to be a hollow mask.\n\nHis whole nature rose in revolt against this horrible scientific\ntravesty of Gods universe. He shrank back alike from the new truths\nand from the theories evolved from them. His faith could not stand the\ntest of the wider knowledge. If God were indeed a myth, immortality\nbut a dream, virtue an unprofitable delusion, man simply a\nbeast gifted with speech, better the old faith concerning all\nthese--accepted though it were in despite of reason and in outrage of\nimmortal truth--than the hideous simulacra of the new philosophy. He\ncast himself back upon the bosom of the Church; he clung to her as\nto the garment of God; but he was powerless to exorcise the spirit\nof scepticism. It rose before him in sacred places, it scoffed at\nhis most earnest and impassioned utterances; he seemed to hear within\nhimself cynical laughter as he stood at the bedside of the dying;\nwhen he knelt to pray it stood at his ear and suggested blasphemy; it\nconverted the solemn light of the Church into a motley atmosphere\nof superstition; it stimulated his strong animal nature to the very\nbounds of self-restraint. Still, if he was unable to exorcise it,\nhe had yet the strength to contend with and to master it. Precisely\nbecause he was sceptical he was rigid in outward doctrine, zealous for\nforms, and indefatigable in the discharge of his clerical functions.\nIn his passionate endeavour to convince himself, he convinced his\nhearers and confirmed them in the faith in which he was himself unable\nto trust.\n\nTo-day the old conflict between the sacerdotal and the sceptical was\ncomplicated by new elements of spiritual discord. After seven years of\nhopeless separation, Charles Santley had once more stood face to face\nwith the embodied dream and inspiration of his early manhood, and had\nfound her, in the full lustre of her peerless womanhood, another man\u2019s\nwife. During those years he had, it was true, reconciled himself\nto what then had been forced upon him as the inevitable, and he had\nsternly set himself to master the problem of his existence, without\nany secret hope that in the coming years his success might bring her\nwithin his reach; but he had never forgotten her. She was to him the\nstarry poetry of his youth. He looked back to the time when he had\nfirst known and loved her, as a sadder and a wiser world looks back to\nthe Golden Age. The memory of her was the ghost of an ancient worship,\nflitting in a dim rosy twilight about the Elysian fields of memory,\nand, it being twilight, the fields were touched with a hallowed\nfeeling of loss and a divine sentiment of regret. And now--oh, bitter\nirony of time and fortune!--now that, he had achieved success, now\nthat all the old gulfs which had separated them were spanned with\ngolden bridges, now that he might have claimed her and she might have\nbeen proud to acknowledge the claim, she once more crossed his life--a\nvision of beauty, a star of inspiration--and once, more he knew that\nshe was hopelessly, infinitely more hopelessly than ever, raised\nbeyond his seeking.\n\nHe was detained so long at the bedside of the dying man that, by the\ntime he had again reached the Vicarage, the bells were ringing for\nevening service and the western sky was ablaze with sunset. In\nthe church the light streamed through the lancets and the painted\ncasements, filling the air with motley breadths of glowing colour,\nand painting pillar and arch and the brown sandstone with glorious\nblazonry. Even in the curtained nook near the organ the space was\nflooded with enchanted lights, and Edith Dove sat beside the tall\ngilded instrument like a picture of St. Cecilia in an illuminated\nmissal. In the pulpit the vicar stood as if transfigured. He spoke,\ntoo, as though he felt that this was the splendour of a new heaven\nopening upon a new earth, and the glad rustle of the trees in the cool\nbreeze outside was the murmur of paradise.\n\n\u201cWe shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed,\u201d were the words\nof his text, and throughout the fervid exposition of the apostle\u2019s\nfaith in the resurrection the sweet, blue eyes and the eager lips of\nthe organist were turned towards the preacher. He seemed this evening,\nhowever, to be unconscious of her presence. He addressed himself\nentirely to the listeners in the pews in front of him, and never cast\neven a solitary glance towards the aisle where she sat.\n\nAt the close of the service Edith found Miss Santley waiting for her\nat the entrance. It had now been customary for several weeks past for\nMiss Dove to go over to the Vicarage on Sunday evening and remain to\nsupper with Mr. Santley and his sister. They went slowly through the\nchurchyard together, and took the little path which led to the house.\nThey remained chatting at the wicket for a few moments, expecting\nthe appearance of the vicar. When Mr. Santley issued from the church,\nhowever, he passed quickly down the gravelled walk to the high-road.\nHe had thrown a rapid look towards the plantation, and had seen the\nyoung women, but he gave no indication of having observed them.\n\n\u201cWhy, Charles is not coming!\u201d exclaimed Miss Santley, with surprise,\nas she saw her brother; \u201che surely cannot be going down to Omberley\nagain.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe is not going to Omberley, dear,\u201d said Edith, who had been watching\nfor the vicar, and had been keen enough to notice the hasty glance he\nhad cast in their direction; \u201che is going up the road.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen wherever can he be going to? And he had not had tea yet, poor\nfellow!\u201d\n\nMiss Santley stepped a few paces back into the churchyard, and stood\non tiptoe to catch a glimpse of him over the hedge; but the vicar had\nalready passed out of sight.\n\n\u201cNever mind, dear,\u201d she said to Edith. \u201cShall we go in and have a\nlittle chat by ourselves? He may have some sick call or other, and he\nis sure to be back soon, or he would have told me where he was\ngoing. Come, you needn\u2019t look so sad,\u201d Miss Santley continued, as she\nobserved the expression of her companion\u2019s face.\n\n\u201cI didn\u2019t think I was looking sad,\u201d replied Edith, blushing.\n\n\u201cOh yes, you were; dreadfully,\u201d said Miss Santley, laughing in a\nbantering manner.\n\n\u201cYou don\u2019t think Mr. Santley is--is not quite well?\u201d asked Edith,\ntimidly.\n\n\u201cOh no; Charles is quite well, I am sure.\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps he is displeased with something,\u201d said Edith, as if speaking\nto herself rather than to Miss Santley.\n\n\u201cWhat a little fidget you are!\u201d said her companion, taking the girl\u2019s\narm. \u201cI know what you are thinking of. I am sure he has no cause to be\ndispleased with _you_, at any rate.\u201d\n\n\u201cI hope not,\u201d replied Miss Dove, brightening a little. \u201cOnly I felt\na misgiving. You do feel misgivings about all sorts of things, don\u2019t\nyou, Mary, without knowing why--a sort of presentiment and an uneasy\nfeeling that something is going to happen?\u201d\n\n\u201cYoung people in love, I believe, experience feelings of that kind,\u201d\n said Miss Santley, with mock gravity, \u201cCome in, you dear little goose,\nand don\u2019t vex your poor wee heart like that. He will be back before we\nhave got half our talk over.\u201d\n\nThe vicar strode rapidly along the road until he reached the summit\nof a rising ground, from which he could see two counties spread out\nbefore him in fruitful undulations of field and meadow and woodland.\nThe sunset was burning down in front of him. Far away in the distant\nlandscape were soft mists of blue smoke rising from half-hidden\nvillages, and here and there flashed points of brightness where the\nsun struck on the windows of a farmstead. On either hand were great\nexpanses of yellowing corn swaying in the cool breeze and reddening\nin the low crimson light. He left the road, and passed through a gate\ninto one of the fields. Following a footpath, he went along the hedge\ntill he reached a stile. Here he was alone and concealed in a vast sea\nof rustling corn. He sat down on the top of the stile, and resting\nhis elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, gazed abstractedly\ninto the glowing west.\n\nA single word which escaped him betrayed the workings of his mind:\n\u201cMarried!\u201d\n\nSeven years ago, when Charles Santley began his struggle in life, he\nobtained through a clerical friend a position as teacher of classics\nin a seminary for young ladies in a small sea-side town in a southern\ncounty. He found his new labour especially congenial. A handsome young\nprofessor, whose attention was fixed on the Church, and who purposed\nto devote himself to her service, was cordially-welcomed by the devout\nladies who conducted the establishment. They were three sisters who\nhad been overlooked in the wide yearning crowd of unloved womanhood,\nand who had turned for consolation to the mystical passions of\nreligion. Under their care a bevy of bright young creatures\nwere brought up as in the chaste seclusion of a convent. Their\nimpressionable natures were surrounded by a strange artificial\natmosphere of spiritual emotion; life shone in upon them, as it were,\nthrough the lancets of a-mediaeval ecclesiasticism, and their young\nhearts, breaking into blossom, were coloured once and for ever with\nthose deep glowing tints.\n\nIt was here that the young man, in the first dawn of the romance of\nmanhood, met the beautiful girl who was now the wife of the owner of\nFoxglove Manor. She was then turned of seventeen, and had become aware\nof the first shy longings and sweet impulses of her nature. She was\nhis favourite pupil, and sat at his right hand at the long table\nwhen he gave his lessons. He used her pen and pencil, referred to her\nbooks, touched her hand with his in the ordinary work of the lesson.\nHer clothes touched his clothes beneath the table. At times their\nfeet met accidentally. She regularly put a flower in a glass of water\nbefore his place. All these trifles were the thrilling incidents of\na delicious romance which the school-girl was making in her flurried\nlittle heart. He, too, was not insensible to the trifles which\naffected his passionate pupil. Her great dark eyes sent electric\nflashes through him. Her breath reached him sweeter than roses. Her\nbeautiful dark hair rubbed against his shoulder or his cheek, and he\ntried to prevent the hot blood from flushing into his face. When their\nhands touched he could have snatched hers and kissed it.\n\nEllen Derwent was happily not a boarder at the establishment, but\nresided with her aunt. Her family were wealthy country people, and\nEllen, who had been ailing for a little while, had been ordered to the\nsea-side for change of air. Early in the bright mornings, and after\nthe day\u2019s schooling was over, Ellen wandered about the sea-shore or\ntook long walks along the cliffs. Santley met her first by accident,\nand after that, though the meetings might still be called accidental,\neach knew that to-morrow and to-morrow and yet again to-morrow\nthe same instinctive feeling--call it a divine chance or love\u2019s\npremonition--would bring them together.\n\nAh! happy, radiant days by that glad sea and in the wild loveliness\nof those romantic cliffs! Oh, vision of flushed cheek and shining eyes,\nand sweet red lips and throbbing bosom! Oh, dim heavenly summer dawns,\nwhen the sea mists were just brightening, and the little birds were\nsinging, and the sea-side town was still half asleep, and only two\nlovers were walking hand in hand along the green brow of the cliffs!\nOh, sweet autumn twilights which the shining eyes seemed to fill with\ndark burning lustre! Oh, kisses, sweeter than ever pressed by woman\u2019s\nlips before or since! Oh, thrill of clasped hands and mad palpitations\nof loving bosoms!\n\nThe swaying corn sounded like the sea as the breeze passed over it,\nand the-murmur broke the vicars reverie.\n\n\u201cMarried!\u201d\n\nMarried? yes, married! The sweet secret could not be kept for ever,\nand when Miss Lilburn, Ellen\u2019s aunt, discovered it, she at once spoke\nto Mr. Santley. She did not oppose his suit--indeed, she liked him\ngreatly, but love, after all, was no mere school-girl\u2019s dream. Was\nhe in a position to make Ellen his wife? In any case, they must know\nabout it at home. If Mr. Derwent approved, she would be most happy\nthat Mr. Santley should visit her; but, in the meantime, it was only\nprudent that Ellen should discontinue these pleasant rambles.\n\nHe had never seen Ellen since, until her face made his heart stand\nstill in the midst of his sermon.\n\nThe vicar rose from the stile with clenched hands and set teeth.\n\n\u201cBitter, bitter!\u201d he said, raising his face to the sky and shaking his\nhead as though he saw above him an invisible face, and spoke half in\nexquisite pain, half in stoical endurance.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III. \u201cTHERE IS A CHANGE!\u201d\n\n|When Edith and Miss Santley reached the Vicarage, they went into\nthe parlour, which, besides having a western exposure, commanded to\na considerable distance a view of the high-road along which the vicar\nhad passed.\n\n\u201cI always think this is the pleasantest room in the house,\u201d said Miss\nSantley, as she drew an armchair into the recess of the open window,\nand Edith seated herself on the couch. \u201cCharles prefers an eastern\nfrontage, for the sake of the early morning, he says; but I am always.\nbusy in the morning, so I suppose I like the afternoon light best,\nwhen I have a little time to sit and bask.\u201d\n\n\u201cIsn\u2019t it natural, too,\u201d suggested Edith, \u201cthat men should prefer\nsunrise and women sunset? Men are so active and sanguine, and have\nso many interests to engage their attention, and women--well, as a\nrule--are such dreamers! Is it not almost constitutional?\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd when did you ever see me dreaming, may I ask?\u201d inquired Miss\nSantley.\n\n\u201cOh no; you are not one of the dreamers,\u201d replied Edith, quickly. \u201cYou\nshould have been called Martha instead of Mary.\u201d\n\n\u201cInsinuating that I am a bit of a busybody, eh?\u201d said Miss Santley,\nwith a sly twinkle of humour.\n\n\u201cYou know I did not mean to insinuate that.\u201d\n\n\u201cOr that you had yourself chosen the better part, eh?\u201d she continued\ngaily.\n\nEdith coloured deeply, and cast her eyes on the floor, while an\nexpression of pain passed across her face.\n\n\u201cNay, my dear, do not look hurt. You know that was only said in jest.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou cannot tell how such jests hurt me,\u201d replied the girl, her lips\nbeginning to tremble.\n\n\u201cEven between our two selves?\u201d asked Miss Santley, taking Edith\u2019s hand\ngently and stroking it with both of hers. \u201cYou know, my dear little\ngirl, how I love you, and how pleased I was when I discovered the way\nin which that poor little heart of yours was beating. You know that\nthere is no one in the world whom I would more gladly--ay, or a\nthousandth part so gladly--take for a sister. Don\u2019t you, Edith? Answer\nme, dear.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d replied the girl, letting her head hang upon her bosom, and\nfeeling her face on flame.\n\n\u201cAnd have I not tried to help you? I know Charles is fond of you--I am\nsure of that. I have eyes in my head, my dear, though they are not so\nyoung and pretty as yours. And I know, too, that a little while ago\nhe was anxious to know what I would say if he should propose to take\na wife. I shall be only too pleased when he makes up his mind. It will\nrelieve me of a great deal of care and anxiety. And he could not in\nthe wide world choose a better or a dearer little girl.\u201d\n\nMiss Santley was not ordinarily of a demonstrative disposition, but as\nshe uttered those last words she drew Edith towards her and kissed her\non the forehead.\n\nThe vicar\u2019s sister was some twelve years his senior. A stout, homely,\nmotherly little woman, with plain but pleasing features, brown hair,\na shrewd but kindly expression, clear grey eyes, and a firm mouth and\nchin, she was as unlike the Vicar in personal appearance as she was\nunlike him in character and temperament. This family unlikeness,\nhowever, had had no prejudicial effect on their mutual affection,\nthough in Miss Santley\u2019s case it was the source of much secret\nuneasiness on her brother\u2019s account. As unimaginative as she was\npractical, she was at a loss to understand her brother\u2019s emotional\nmysticism and dreamy idealism; but her knowledge of human nature made\nher timorously aware of the dangers which beset the combination of a\nsplendid physique with a glowing temperament which was almost febrile\nin its sensuous impulsiveness. She was spared the torture of sharing\nthat darker secret of unbelief; but she was sufficiently conscious of\nthe strong fervid nature of the vicar, to feel thankful that Edith had\nmade a deep impression on him, and that when he did marry it would be\na bright and congenial young creature who would be worthy of him and\nattached to herself.\n\n\u201cSo why should it hurt you, if I do jest a little?\u201d asked Miss\nSantley, as she kissed Edith. \u201cLove cannot always be transcendental,\notherwise two people will never come closely together. The best gift a\ncouple of lovers can possess in common, is a capacity for a little fun\nand affectionate wit. Your solemn lovers are always misunderstanding\neach other, and quarrelling and making it up again.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut we are not lovers yet, Mary,\u201d said Edith in a timid whisper.\n\n\u201cNot yet, perhaps; but you will be soon, if I am capable of forming\nany opinion.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know, I don\u2019t know,\u201d Edith replied with a sigh; and her soft\nblue eyes filled with tears. Then raising her eyes imploringly to Miss\nSantley, and nervously taking her hand, she continued: \u201cOh, Mary, do\nnot think me too forward and eager and unwomanly. Do not judge me too\nhardly. I know a girl should not give her heart away till she is asked\nfor it. But I cannot help it--I love him--I love him so! I have done\nall I could to prevent myself from loving him, but it is no use--oh!\nit is no use.\u201d\n\nShe burst into a paroxysm of passionate sobbing, and Miss Santley,\nwithout saying a word, put her arms about her and softly caressed her\nsoft flaxen hair.\n\nThe outburst was gradually subdued, and Edith, with a hot glowing\nface hidden on her friend\u2019s shoulder, was too ashamed to change her\nposition.\n\n\u201cDo you feel better now, dear? asked Miss Santley in a kindly voice.\n\n\u201cOh, Mary, are you not ashamed of me--disgusted?\u201d\n\nMiss Santley replied in a woman\u2019s way with another kiss, and again\nfondled the girl\u2019s head.\n\nAfter a pause of a few moments, she gently raised her face and\nregarded it affectionately.\n\n\u201cYou must come upstairs and wash away those tell-tales before he\nreturns. And\u201d--she added a little hesitatingly--\u201cwill you not trust me\nwith the cause of all this trouble?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am afraid you will laugh at me, dear, it must seem such a foolish\ncause to you. And I know you will say it was all simply my fancy.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat was it?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou know, dear, where I sit in church?\u201d Edith began, nervously\nplaying with the lace on Miss Santley\u2019s dress. \u201cWell, he always used\nto turn twice or thrice in my direction during the sermon. I used\nto think he did it because he knew I was there. And he did it this\nafternoon. But in the evening he never looked once during the whole\ntime.\u201d\n\nMiss Santley began to smile in spite of herself.\n\n\u201cThen when he came out of the church he saw you and me waiting for\nhim--I saw him give one single sharp look--and then he went on as if\nhe had not perceived us. He would not have gone away like that, Mary,\nif I had not been with you.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd is that all?\u201d inquired Mary as Edith paused.\n\n\u201cI think it is quite enough,\u201d the latter replied sorrowfully. \u201cIt\nmeans that he is tired of me; he was displeased that I was with you;\nhe did not want to speak to me.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy dear girl, all this is simply silly fancy; you will make your\nwhole life miserable if you imagine things in this way.\u201d\n\n\u201cI knew you would say that; but you do not understand. I hardly\nunderstand myself; but I know what I say is true. You remember old\nHarry Wilson down in the village--he has a wooden leg, you know, but\nwhen there is going to be a bad change of weather, he says he can feel\nit in the foot he has lost; and he is always right. I think I am like\nhim, dear; I have lost something, and it makes me feel when there is a\nchange, long before the storm breaks.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll this is nothing but nonsense, my little woman!\u201d said Miss Santley\nreassuringly. \u201cCome with me upstairs, and let us make ourselves\npresentable.\u201d When Edith had bathed her face, the two came downstairs\nagain, but instead of returning to the parlour they went into the\nlibrary. This was specially the vicar\u2019s room, and, more than any\nother, it indicated the tastes and character of its occupant. The\nwhole house, indeed, was tinged with the mediaeval colouring of\nthe church, and in all parts of it you came upon indications of the\necclesiastical spirit of the owner; but here the vicar had given\nfullest expression to his fancy, and the room had as much the\nappearance of an oratory as of a library. At one end a small alcove\njutted out into the plantation, and the windows were filled with\nstained glass. On the walls hung several of Raphael\u2019s cartoons; on the\nmantelpiece stood, under glass, a marble group of The Dead Christ;\nthe furniture, which was of carved oak, suggested the stalls in\nthe chancel; the brass gasalier and brackets were of ecclesiastical\ndesign; and, lastly, the library shelves were solemnly weighted with\nlong rows of theology, sermons, and Biblical literature in several\nlanguages. In a separate bookcase, which was kept locked, were\ngathered together a number of scientific works and volumes of modern\nspeculative philosophy. A third bookcase was devoted to history,\npoetry, travels, and miscellaneous works. The great bulk of the\nlibrary, however, was clerical, and the vicar had within arm\u2019s reach\na fair epitome of all that the good men of all ages and many countries\nhad discovered regarding the mystery of the world and the relationship\nof man.\n\nIn one corner of the room stood a tall richly carved triangular\ncupboard of black oak, and it too, like the bookcase of science, was\nkept perpetually locked.\n\nAs Edith entered the room her eyes fell upon it, and turning to her\ncompanion she asked--\n\n\u201cOh, Mary, have you discovered the skeleton yet?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d replied Miss Santley, with a laugh. \u201cCharles is forgetful enough\nin some things, but he has never yet left the key in that lock. I once\nasked him what it was he concealed so carefully, but he refused\nto satisfy my curiosity; so I resolved to trust to chance and his\ncarelessness. I have waited so long, however, that my curiosity has at\nlast been tired out. I don\u2019t suppose, after all, it is anything worth\nknowing.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd why does he always keep this bookcase locked too? The books all\nlook so fresh and new, and they are much more attractive than those\ndusty old fellows any one can look into. I should like to read several\nof those, one hears so much about them. There is Darwin, \u2018The Descent\nof Man\u2019--I have read articles about that book in the magazines, and I\nknow he believes Adam and Eve were apes in Paradise or something like\nthat.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, my dear, Charles would never allow you to read those books on any\naccount. They are all dreadfully wicked and blasphemous. He only\nreads them himself to refute them and to be able to show how false and\ndangerous they are.\u201d\n\nEdith, who had approached the window, now suddenly started back, and a\nbright flush rose to her face.\n\n\u201cHere is Mr. Santley, Mary! How pale and wearied he looks!\u201d\n\nA moment or two later the vicar entered the library. At the sight of\nMiss Dove he paused for an instant, and then advancing, held out his\nhand to her.\n\n\u201cYou here, Miss Edith!\u201d he said coldly. \u201cHow are you, and how is your\naunt?\u201d\n\nHe did not wait for an answer, but went to his writing-table and sat\ndown.\n\nThe two women exchanged glances of surprise, and Edith\u2019s face grew sad\nand white.\n\n\u201cAre you not well, Charles?\u201d his sister asked, going up to him and\nlooking solicitously into his face.\n\n\u201cI am not very well this evening,\u201d replied the vicar; \u201cit is the\nweather, I think. If Miss Edith will excuse me, I think I will leave\nyou and lie down. I feel tired.\u201d\n\nHe rose again abruptly, and Edith stood regarding him with large,\nwistful eyes. He moved towards the door, and then suddenly stopped and\nturned to her.\n\n\u201cGood evening,\u201d he said once more, holding out his hand and speaking\nin a cold, distant manner. \u201cPresent my compliments to your aunt.\u201d\n\n\u201cI hope you will be well in the morning,\u201d said Edith, timidly.\n\n\u201cThanks. Yes; I expect I shall be all right again after a little\nrest.\u201d\n\nHe turned and left her, and Miss Santley, glancing at her\nsignificantly, followed him to his room.\n\n\u201cHe has over-exerted himself to-day,\u201d said Mary a little later, as she\naccompanied Miss Dove to the garden gate. \u201cHe had a sick call in the\nafternoon, and was unable to take his usual rest. You will excuse my\nnot accompanying you home, will you not?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh certainly,\u201d said Edith. \u201cI hope it is nothing serious. Would you\nnot like to see Dr. Spruce? I can call, you know.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe says he does not need the doctor; he knows what is the matter with\nhim, and only requires rest. Good night, dear! I am so sorry I cannot\ngo part of the way with you.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo not think of that,\u201d said Edith, shaking hands. \u201cIt is not late,\nand you must not leave him.\u201d\n\nThe sunset had lowered down to its last red embers, but it was still\nquite light as Edith turned away from the Vicarage gate. She proceeded\nslowly down the road towards the village for a few moments, and then\npaused and looked back. No one was on the road. Retracing her steps,\nshe passed the Vicarage at a quick pace, and took the direction which\nthe vicar had taken an hour before. Strangely enough, she stopped at\nthe top of the rising ground where he had stopped; went through the\nsame gate, into the same field, and, following the same path, reached\nthe stile on which he had sat. Here she sat down, with the great sea\nof corn whispering and murmuring about her, and the distant landscape\ngrowing-gradually more and more indistinct in the bluish vapour of the\ntwilight. Alone and hidden from observation, she sat on the step with\nher arms on the cross-bar of the stile and her head laid on them,\nweeping bitterly.\n\n\u201cI have lost something, and it makes, me feel when there is a change!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV. GEORGE HALDANE.\n\n|The low-lying landscape had vanished in the twilight, and the stars\nwere twinkling in the clear blue sky before Edith rose, dried her\neyes, and began to return homeward. The moon had risen, but had yet\nscarcely freed itself from the tops of the dark woods, through which\nit shone round and ruddy. As she passed the Vicarage, she paused and\nlooked up at the windows. She felt prompted to steal quietly up to\nthe door and inquire whether Mr. Santley was any better, but a fear\narising from many causes held her back. Besides, the house was in\ndarkness, and every one seemed to have retired to rest.\n\nSince Edith had been in the habit of visiting the Vicarage, this was\nthe first occasion on which she had returned home alone. Unreasonable\nas she acknowledged the suspicion to be, she could not rid herself\nof the belief that Mr. Santleys indisposition had been, assumed as an\nexcuse for avoiding her. She strove to convince herself that she was\nfoolishly sensitive and jealous, to hope that the change in the vicars\nmanner was but an illusion of her excited fancy, to feel confident\nthat when she saw him to-morrow she would recognize how childish she\nhad been.\n\nMiss Dove was exceedingly fond of music, and during the week she was\naccustomed to spend hours alone in the church, giving utterance to her\nthoughts, and feelings in dreamy voluntaries, which were the fugitive\ninspiration of the moment, or filling the cool, richly lighted aisles\nwith the impassioned strains of Mozart, Haydn, and Mendelssohn. The\nsound of the organ could be heard at the Vicarage, and Mr. Santley had\nbeen in the habit of going into the church, and conversing with her\nwhile she played. It was with the hope that one of his favourite\npieces would again bring him to her that, during the afternoon of the\nfollowing day, Edith took her seat at the organ. With nervous, eager\nfingers she swept the key-board, and sent her troubled heart into\nthe yearning anguish and clamorous impetration of the _Agnus Dei_\nof Haydn\u2019s No. 2. When she had finished she rested for a little, and\nglanced expectantly down the aisle; but no footstep disturbed\nthe quiet of the place. She then turned to another of the vicar\u2019s\nfavourites--a _Gloria_ of Mozart\u2019s. The volumes of throbbing sound\nvibrated through the stained windows, and floated across the bright\nchurchyard to the Vicarage; but Ediths hope was not realized. She\nplayed till she felt wearied, rather with the hopelessness of her task\nthan with the physical exertion; but the schoolboy who blew the organ\nfor her was exhausted, and when she saw how red and hot he looked,\nshe closed the instrument and dismissed him. Every day that week she\nrepeated her experiment, but her music had apparently lost its\nmagical influence. The vicar never came. She called thrice to see Miss\nSantley, but each time he was away from home. Once she saw him in the\nvillage, and her heart began to beat violently as he approached; but\nthey were on different sides of the street, and instead of crossing\nover to her, as he had always done hitherto, he merely smiled, raised\nhis hat, and passed on. Sunday came round at length, and she looked\nforward with a sad, painful wonder to the customary visit in the\nevening.\n\nIt was a bright, breezy sabbath morning, and the great limes and\nsycamores which buried Foxglove Manor in a wilderness of billowy\nverdure, rolled gladsomely in the sun, and filled the world with a\nvast sealike _susurrus_. On the stone terrace which ran along the\nfront of the mansion the master of the Manor was lounging, with a\ncigar in his mouth, and a huge deer-hound basking at his feet; while\nin the shadow of the room his wife stood at an open French window,\nconversing with him.\n\nMr. Haldane was a tall, broad-shouldered, powerful man of about\nforty years of age. His face, especially in repose, was by no means\nhandsome. His grave, large, strongly marked features expressed\ndecision, daring, and indomitable force. His forehead was broad, and\ndeeply marked with the perpendicular lines of long mental labour. The\npoise of his head suggested a habit of boldly confronting an opponent.\nHis short hair and closely trimmed beard were touched with gray, and\ngave a certain keenness and frostiness to his appearance. A grim,\nself-sufficing, iron-natured man, one would have said, until one had\nlooked into his bright blue-gray eyes, which lit up his strong, rugged\nface with an expression of frankness and dry humour.\n\n\u201cMy dear Nell,\u201d he said at length, in answer to the persistent\npersuasion of his wife, \u201cdo not be cross. There are two things in the\nworld which I abhor beyond all others: a damp church and a dry\nsermon. Invite your vicar as often as you please. I will do my best to\nentertain him; but do not press me to sit out an interminable farrago\nof irritating platitudes in a chilly, straight-backed pew.\u201d\n\n\u201cI assure you, George, you will be charmed with him, if you will only\nlet me prevail on you to come.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy cannot you Christians dispense with incense, and allow smoking\ninstead--at least during the sermon?\u201d\n\nMrs. Haldane made a little grimace of horror.\n\n\u201cYou would then have whole burnt offerings dedicated with a devout and\ncheerful heart.\u201d\n\n\u201cGeorge, you are shockingly profane! I see it is no use urging you\nany further; but I did think you would have put yourself to even some\nlittle inconvenience for my sake.\u201d\n\n\u201cFor your sake, Nell!\u201d replied Mr. Haldane, laughing. \u201cWhy did you not\nsay so sooner? You know I would do anything on those terms. Have I not\noften told you the married philosopher has but one moral law--to do\nhis wife\u2019s will in all things.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen you will accompany me?\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly I will.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are a dear, good old bear,\u201d exclaimed Mrs. Haldane, slipping on\nto the terrace and caressing his head with both hands. \u201cBut you\nknow you _are_ a bear, and you will try for once to be nice and\ngood-natured, will you not? And you will not be cold and cynical\nwith him because he is ideal and enthusiastic? And if you do not\nacknowledge that he is a delightful preacher, and that the dear little\nchurch is charming----\u201d\n\n\u201cYou will not ask me to go again?\u201d\n\n\u201cI was going to say that, but it will be wiser to make no promises.\nYou know, dear, you should go to church, if it were only for the sake\nof giving a good example; and it is my duty to try and persuade you\nto go. And oh, George, seriously I do wish you could feel that it drew\nyou nearer to God; that where two or three are gathered together, He\nis in the midst of them. Now, do not smile in that hard, derisive\nway. I know I cannot argue with you, but if I cannot reply to your\nreasoning, you cannot convince my heart. I do believe, in spite of all\nlogic, that I have a heavenly Father who loves and watches over me and\nyou too, dear; and I should be wretched----\u201d\n\n\u201cMy dear little woman,\u201d said Mr. Haldane, taking both her hands in one\nof his, \u201cyou have no cause to be wretched. I have no wish to deprive\nyou of your belief in a heavenly Father. With women the illusions of\nthe heart last longer than with men; and perhaps, in these days of\nchange and innovation, it is as well that women have still a creed to\nfind comfort in. For my part, I confess I hardly understand what it\nis attracts you in your religion. The civilized world, so far as I can\nsee, has outgrown the golden age of worship, and _latria_ is one of\nthe lost arts.\u201d\n\nThe presence of the master of Foxglove Manor created considerable\nsurprise and curiosity among the congregation at St. Cuthbert\u2019s.\nThough he had lived in the neighbourhood for the last twelve years,\nthis was the first time he had been seen inside a church. Much more\nattention was paid during the service to the beautiful lady of the\nManor, and the grim, powerful man who sat beside her, than was in\nkeeping with the sacred character of the occasion. Mr. Haldane, on his\npart, though he did his best by imitating the example of his wife to\nconform to the ritual, was keenly critical of the whole service. The\ndim religious light of the painted windows pleased his eye, but failed\nto exercise any influence on his feelings. The decorations of the\nchurch seemed to him insincere and artificial. He missed in the\natmosphere that sense of reverence which he had experienced in the old\ncathedrals in Spain and Italy. The ceremonies appeared dry, joyless,\nand uninteresting, and as he watched the congregation bowing,\nkneeling, praying, singing, pageants of the jubilant mythic worship of\nthe ancient world crowded upon his imagination.\n\n\u201cWhat are you thinking of?\u201d his wife once whispered, as she caught a\nsidelong glance at his abstracted face.\n\n\u201cDiana at Ephesus!\u201d he replied, with a curious twinkle in his keen\ngray eyes.\n\nOnce or twice during the sermon a saturnine smile passed across\nhis face, and Mrs. Haldane pressed his foot by way of warning; but\notherwise he listened gravely throughout, with his large, strongly\nmarked features turned to the preacher.\n\n\u201cWell, have you been interested, dear?\u201d asked Mrs. Haldane, when the\nservice was over, and they were waiting in the churchyard for the\nvicar.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d he replied drily; \u201cyour vicar is interesting.\u201d\n\n\u201cNow, what do you mean by that?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe will repay study, my dear.\u201d\n\nMrs. Haldane looked sharply into her husband\u2019s face, but was\ndissatisfied with her scrutiny.\n\n\u201cYou don\u2019t like him?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have no reason yet to like or dislike him. In a general way, I\nshould prefer to say that I do like him.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut what do you mean by your remark that he will repay study?\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps you will not understand me,\u201d he answered thoughtfully. \u201cYour\nvicar has a soul, Nell.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo have we all, I suppose.\u201d\n\n\u201cAt least he believes he has one,\u201d said Mr. Haldane, with a slight\nshrug of his shoulders.\n\n\u201cWell!\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd he is trying to save it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe all are, I hope.\u201d\n\n\u201cI beg your pardon, Nell; the phenomenon in these days is a\npsychological rarity, and, being rare, is naturally interesting. It\nis one of the obscure problems of cerebration. Ah! here comes your\nvicar.\u201d\n\nWith a bright smile Mrs. Haldane advanced to meet him, and cordially\nshook hands with him. \u201cYou must allow me to introduce you to my\nhusband. George, Mr. Santley.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy wife tells me,\u201d said Mr. Haldane, as they shook hands, \u201cthat she\nwas an old pupil of yours.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said the vicar, with an uneasy glance towards her, \u201cmany years\nago.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is a little curious,\u201d continued Mr. Haldane, \u201chow people lose\nsight of each other for years, and then are unexpectedly thrown\ntogether into the same small social circle, after they have quite\nforgotten each others existence.\u201d\n\nThe vicar winced at the last words, but replied with a faint smile,\n\u201cThe great world is, after all, a very little world.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, my dear sir, I see I have started a familiar train of\nthought--the littleness of the world,\u201d said Mr. Haldane, with a dry\nlight in his eyes.\n\n\u201cAnd you fear I may improve the occasion?\u201d asked the vicar a little\ncoldly.\n\n\u201cPray do not misunderstand my husband,\u201d interposed Mrs. Haldane. \u201cHe\nwas delighted with your sermon to-day; and I do not wonder, for you\nhave the power of appealing to the heart and raising the mind beyond\nearthly things. It was only a few moments ago that he told me he was\ndeeply interested.\u201d\n\n\u201cI perceived that he was amused once or twice,\u201d replied the vicar,\nwith a smile.\n\n\u201cI confess that I may have smiled at one or two points in your\ndiscourse.\u201d\n\n\u201cExcuse my interrupting you,\u201d said Mrs. Haldane; \u201cwill you not walk?\nYou can spare time to accompany us a little way?\u201d\n\nMr. Santley bowed, and Mrs. Haldane signed to the coachman to drive on\nslowly towards the village.\n\n\u201cFor example,\u201d resumed Mr. Haldane, \u201cI see you still stick to the old\nchronology and the mythic Eden.\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly I do.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd yet you should be aware that at least a thousand years before the\ndate you fix for the creation of Adam, tribes of savage hunters and\nfishers peopled the old fir-woods of Denmark, and set their nets in\nthe German Ocean.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt may eventually prove necessary to revise the chronology of the\nBible,\u201d replied the vicar; \u201cbut there is at present too much conflict\nof opinion among your archaeologists to decide on the absolute age of\nthese tribes. After all, the question is one of minor importance.\u201d\n\n\u201cGranted. But you cannot say the same of the efficacy of prayer.\u201d\n\nMrs. Haldane laid her hand on her husband\u2019s arm, and stopped abruptly.\n\u201cAsk Mr. Santley to dinner, George, and then you can discuss as long\nand as profoundly as you like; but I will not allow you to argue now.\nBesides, I want to talk to Mr. Santley.\u201d\n\nMr. Haldane laughed good-naturedly. \u201cJust as you please, my dear. If\nMr. Santley will favour us with his company, I shall be very glad.\nYour predecessor was a frequent visitor at our house. A jovial,\nrubicund fellow, whose troubles in this life were less of the world\nand the devil than of the flesh! A fat, ponderous man and a Tory, as\nall fat men are; a sort of Falstaff _in pontificalibus_; a man with a\nwit and a shrewd palate for old port. Poor fellow! he was snuffed out\nlike a candle. One could have better spared a better man.\u201d\n\n\u201cWill you come to-morrow?\u201d asked Mrs. Haldane; \u201cand, if your sister\ncan accompany you, will you bring her? You will excuse our informality\nand so short a notice.\u201d\n\n\u201cI shall be very happy to call tomorrow.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen, if you can spare me a few moments I will have a better\nopportunity of speaking to you. I must learn all about the parish,\nand I have a whole catechism of questions to ask you. You will come\nto-morrow, then?\u201d she concluded, with one of those flashing looks from\nher great dark eyes.\n\nHe watched them drive away with that look burning in his brain and\nthe pressure of her hand tingling through every nerve. He stood gazing\nafter her with a passionate light in his eyes and an eager, yearning\nexpression on his pale, agitated face. This was the woman he had\nlost, and now they were again thrown together in the same small social\ncircle, after she had completely forgotten his existence! Those words\nof her husband had cut him to the quick. Could she so soon, so easily,\nso completely have forgotten him? It seemed incredible. If she\nhad used any such expression to her husband, was it not rather to\nforestall any jealous suspicion on his part? Clearly she had not\ndivulged the secret of those schoolgirl days. _He_ knew not the\nstory of that sweet, imperishable romance; those burning kisses and\nunforgotten vows had been hidden from him; and in that concealment\nthe vicar found a strange, subtle pleasure. It was at least one tie\nbetween him and her; one secret in common in which her husband had no\nshare.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V. THE LAMB AND THE SHEPHERD.\n\n|The vicar was standing close beside the village school, and as he\nturned to go back home he saw the schoolmistress in the doorway of\nher little cottage. He started as though she had been looking into his\nheart, instead of watching the carriage as it bowled along towards\nthe village. Without a moment\u2019s hesitation, however, he opened the\nschoolyard gate and went up to her.\n\n\u201cWell, Miss Greatheart, how are you to-day?\u201d\n\nDora, a bright, merry-looking woman of about thirty, dropped a curtsy,\nand invited the vicar into the house.\n\n\u201cThank you, no; I must not stay. I have just been speaking, as you\nhave seen, to my new parishioners. I call them new, though I suppose\nthey are older in the parish than I am myself.\u201d\n\n\u201cOld as they are, this is the first time I ever set eyes on Mr.\nHaldane in our church, sir. His pretty wife must have converted him.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen they have not been long married?\u201d\n\n\u201cSomewhere about two years, I should think. All last year they were\naway in Egypt and Palestine; and perhaps now that he\u2019s seen the Land,\nhe believes in the Book.\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed!\u201d\n\n\u201cSeeing\u2019s believing, you know, sir; and if all tales be true, he used\nnot to believe in anything from the roof upward. Oh, you may well look\nshocked, sir, but he was quite an atheist and an infidel; but you see\nhe was so rich that the gentry round about didn\u2019t care to give him\nthe go-by. I suppose you haven\u2019t been to the Manor yet, sir? The old\nvicar, Mr. Hart, was always there. People did say he paid more court\nto the people at the Manor than he should have done, considering the\nneed for him in the parish; and when Mr. Hart got his second stroke,\nthere were those that said it was a judgment on him for high living,\nand the company he kept. But you know, sir, how folks\u2019 tongues will\nwag.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs the Manor far from here? Of course I have heard of the place, but\nI have never been near it.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s about four miles, sir, and a lonely place it is, and dismal it\nmust be in winter, with miles of wood about it. In summer it is not\nso bad, but it is awfully wild and solitary. I went over the grounds\nonce, years ago. I became acquainted with one of the housemaids, you\nsee, sir--quite a nice young person--and she invited me to tea. I\nremember it was getting dusk when I left, and she took me through the\nwoods. Dear me, what a fright I got! I happened to look up, and there\nwas a man, quite a giant, standing among the trees. I screamed, and\nwould have run had not Jane--that was the maid, sir--laughed, and said\nit was only a statue. And so it was, for we went right up to it. All\nthe woods are full of statues--quite improper and rude, and rather\nfrightening to meet in the dusk. But now he is converted, Mrs. Haldane\nwill have them all taken away, I should think. I don\u2019t believe the\nplace is haunted, though there are some strange stories told about\nit; but I do know that the chapel--there is an old chapel close by\nthe house--is shut up, and no one goes near it but Mr. Haldane and\nhis valet--a dark foreign person, with such eyes! Queer tales are told\nabout lights being seen in it at all hours of the night, and some of\nthe old folk believe that if any one could look in they would see that\nthe foreign valet had horns and a cloven foot, and that his master was\nworshipping him. I think that\u2019s all nonsense myself; but there\u2019s no\ndoubt Mr. Haldane used to be dreadfully wicked, and an atheist.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf he was so very bad,\u201d said the vicar, smiling, \u201csurely it was\nstrange that Mr. Hart used to associate with him so much.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, you see, sir, he was always liberal, and kept a good table, and\nMr. Hart was a cheerful liver. Then Mr. Haldane was always ready with\nhis purse when there was a hard winter, or the crops were bad, or any\npoor person was ill.\u201d\n\n\u201cI see, I see,\u201d said the vicar.\n\n\u201cBut his charity could not do him any good, people said, when he\ndidn\u2019t believe there was a God, or that he had a soul.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo they didn\u2019t consider it worth while to be thankful?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t think they did, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd was Mrs. Haldane staying at the Manor the first year of their\nmarriage?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes; he brought her back with him after the honeymoon.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd do they speak as kindly of her in the village as they do of her\nhusband?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, indeed, sir, they worship her. Even old Mother Grimsoll, who said\nshe wanted to make a charity woman of her when you bought her that\nscarlet cloak last winter, has a good word for Mrs. Haldane. She isn\u2019t\nthe least bit conceited, and she knows that poor people have their\nproper pride; and when she helps any one she makes them feel that they\nare doing her a favour. When Mr. Hart was alive she used to go round\nwith him, devising and dispensing charities. It\u2019s only a pity she is\nmarried to--to--\u201c--and Miss Greatheart beat impatiently on the ground\nwith her foot in the effort to recall the word--\u201cto an agnostic. Mr.\nHart said he wasn\u2019t an atheist, but an agnostic, though I dare say if\nthe truth were known one is worse than the other.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are not very charitable, Miss Greatheart; come, now, confess,\u201d\n said the vicar, good-humouredly.\n\n\u201cPerhaps not, sir; but I have no patience with atheists and\nagnostics.\u201d\n\n\u201cAn atheist,\u201d continued the vicar, \u201cis a person who does not believe\nin a God; an agnostic is one who merely says he does not know whether\nthere is a God or not.\u201d\n\n\u201cDoesn\u2019t know!\u201d exclaimed Dora, indignantly. \u201cWherever was the man\nbrought up?\u201d\n\nThat evening, as Miss Santley and Edith went across from the church to\nthe Vicarage together, the vicar joined them, and Miss Dove remained\nto supper as usual. The time passed pleasantly enough; but Edith\nwas conscious of a certain restraint, in the conversation, a curious\nchilliness in the atmosphere. When at length she rose to go home, the\nvicar went to the window, and looked out for a few seconds.\n\n\u201cI think, Mary, you might accompany us; and when we have seen Miss\nEdith home, we could take a turn round together. It is a beautiful\nnight.\u201d\n\nMary nodded assent, and Edith felt her heart sink within her. She was\ncertain now that he was avoiding her. As she followed Miss Santley\nupstairs to put on her things, a sudden thought flashed upon her.\n\n\u201cI shall be with you in a moment, Mary,\u201d she said; \u201cI have dropped my\nhandkerchief, I think.\u201d\n\nShe ran back to the parlour, and met the vicar face to face as he\npaced the room.\n\nShe stood still, and looked at him silently for a moment. She had\ntaken him by surprise, and he too stood motionless.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d he said at last, with a faint smile.\n\n\u201cDo you hate me, Charles?\u201d she asked in a low, steady voice.\n\n\u201cHate you! Why should I hate you, my dear Edith? What should put such\nthoughts----\u201d\n\n\u201cI have only a few seconds to speak to you,\u201d Miss Dove continued\nhastily. \u201cAnswer me truly and directly. You do not hate me?\u201d\n\n\u201cI shall never hate you, dear.\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2018Why do you avoid me?\u201d\n\n\u201cHave I avoided you?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou know you have. Why?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have not avoided you, Edith.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you still love me?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou know I do.\u201d\n\n\u201cAs much as ever you did?\u201d\n\n\u201cAs much as ever.\u201d\n\n\u201cCan I see you to-morrow--alone?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou know I am going to the Manor.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know,\u201d said Edith, with a slight tone of bitterness. \u201cYou will\nreturn in the evening, I suppose? I shall wait for you on the road\ntill nine o\u2019clock.\u201d\n\n\u201cI may be detained, you know, Edith.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen I shall be practising in the church on Tuesday afternoon as\nusual.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery well,\u201d he assented.\n\n\u201cAm I still to trust you, Charles?\u201d she asked, raising her soft blue\neyes earnestly to his face.\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes?\u201d She dwelt upon the word, still looking fondly up to him. He\nunderstood her, and bent over and kissed her.\n\n\u201cYou will try to return home tomorrow before nine? I have been\nmiserable all this week, and I have so much to say to you.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will try to see you,\u201d said the vicar.\n\n\u201cI must run now; Mary will wonder what has kept me.\u201d\n\nThe great woods about Foxglove Manor were certainly lovely, and in the\nwinter, with the snow on their black branches, and snow on the fallen\nleaves and the open spaces between the clumps of forestry, the place\nmight have seemed dreary and dismal; but on this July afternoon the\nvicar experienced an indescribable sense of buoyancy and enlargement\namong these vast tossing masses of foliage. Their incessant murmur\nfilled the air with an inarticulate music, which recalled to his\nmemory the singing pines of Theocritus and the voices of the firs of\nthe Hebrew prophets. A spirit of romance for ever haunts the woodland,\nas though the olden traditions of dryad and sylvan maiden had not yet\nbeen wholly superseded by the more accurate report of science. In the\nskirts of the great clusters of timber, cattle were grazing in groups\nof white and red; in the open spaces of pasture land between wood and\nwood, deer were visible among the patches of bracken. In the depths of\nthe forest ways he came upon the colossal statues copied from the\nold masters; and at length, at a turn of the shadowy road, he found\nhimself in view of the mansion--an ancient, square mass of brown\nsandstone, stained with weather and incrustations of moss and lichens,\nand covered all along the southern exposure with a dense growth of\nivy. The grounds immediately in front were laid out in formal plots\nfor flowers and breadths of turf traversed by gravelled pathways. A\nlittle withdrawn from the house stood the ruined chapel of which the\nschoolmistress had spoken. The ivy had invaded it, and scaled every\nwall to the very eaves, while patches of stonecrop and houseleek,\nwhich had established themselves on the slated roof, gave it a\nsingular aspect of complete abandonment.\n\nAs Mr. Santley entered one of the walks which led to the terraced\nentrance, Mrs. Haldane, who had observed his approach, appeared on the\nstone steps, and descended to meet him.\n\n\u201cHow good of you to come so early!\u201d she exclaimed. \u201cGeorge will be\ndelighted. He is in his laboratory, experimenting as usual. We shall\njoin him, after you have had some refreshment.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo refreshment for me, thank you.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you quite sure? You must require something after so long a walk.\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing really, I assure you.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I shall not press you, as we shall have dinner soon. Shall\nwe go to Mr. Haldane? Have you visited the Manor before--not in our\nabsence? How do you like it?\u201d\n\n\u201cI envy you your magnificent woods.\n\n\u201cYes; are they not charming? And you will like the house, too, when\nyou have seen it.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you not find it dull, however?\u201d asked the vicar, looking into her\nface with an expression of keen scrutiny. \u201cYou are still young--in the\nblossom of your youth--and society must still have its attractions for\nyou.\u201d\n\n\u201cOne enjoys society all the more after a little seclusion.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo doubt.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd we have just returned, you must recollect, from a whole year of\nwandering and sight-seeing, so that it is a positive relief to awaken\nmorning after morning and find the same peaceful landscape, the same\nquiet woods about one.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is very natural; but the heart does not long remain content with\nthe unchanging face of nature, however beautiful it may be. Even the\nbest and strongest require sympathy, and when once we become conscious\nof that want----\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you begun to feel it?\u201d she asked suddenly, as he paused.\n\n\u201cI suppose it is the inevitable experience of a clergyman in a country\nparish,\u201d he replied, with a smile.\n\n\u201cYes, I suppose it is. So few can take an interest in your tastes,\nand aspirations, and intellectual pleasures, and pursuits. Is not that\nso?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt may seem vanity to think so.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh no; I think not. The people you meet every day are mostly\nconcerned in their turnips or the wheat or their cattle, and their\ntalk is the merest village gossip. It must indeed be very depressing\nto listen day after day to nothing but that. One has, of course, a\nrefuge in books.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut books are not life. The daydreams of the library are a poor\nsubstitute for the real action of a mans own heart and brain.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen one has also the great fields of natural science to explore.\nI think you will find the work of my husband interesting, and if you\ncould turn your mind in the same direction, you would find in him\ninexhaustible sympathy.\u201d\n\nAs she spoke, they reached the low-arched portal of the chapel. The\nthick oaken door, studded with big iron nails, was open, and before\nthem stood a man who bowed profoundly to Mrs. Haldane, and then darted\na swift, penetrating glance at the vicar.\n\n\u201cMr. Haldane is within, Baptisto?\u201d she asked.\n\n\u201cYes, senora.\u201d\n\nHe stood aside to allow them to pass, and as Mr. Santley entered he\nregarded the man with an eye which photographed every feature of his\ndark Spanish face. It was a face which, once seen, stamped itself in\nhaunting lineaments on the memory. A dusky olive complexion; a fierce,\nhandsome mouth and chin; a broad, intelligent forehead; short, crisp\nblack hair sprinkled with grey; a thin, black moustache, twisted and\npointed at the ends; and a pair of big, black, unfathomable eyes,\nfilled with liquid fire. It was the man\u2019s eyes that arrested the\nattention first, gave character not only to the face but to the man\nhimself, and indeed served to identify him. In the village, \u201cthe\nforeign gentleman with the eyes\u201d was the popular and sufficient\ndescription of Baptisto.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI. THE UNKNOWN GOD.\n\n|As the vicar entered the chapel, he stopped short, struck with\nastonishment at the singular appearance of the interior.\n\nThe sunlight streaming through the leaded diamond panes of the\ncasements, instead of falling on the familiar pews, flagged nave,\nand solemn walls, shone with a startling effect on the heterogeneous\ncontents of a museum and laboratory. Along one side of the building\nwere ranged several glass cases containing collections of fossils,\narctic and tropical shells, antique implements of flint, stone, and\nbronze, and geological specimens. The walls were decorated with savage\ncuriosities--shields of skin, carved clubs and paddles, spears and\narrows tipped with flint or fishbone, mats of grass, strings of\nwampum, and dresses of skins and feathers. On a couple of small\nshelves grinned two rows of hideous crania, gathered as ethnic types\nfrom all quarters of the barbarian world, and beside them lay a\nplaster cast of a famous paleolithic skull. On the various stands\nand tables in different parts of the room were retorts and crucibles,\ncurious tubes, glasses and flasks, electric jars and batteries,\nbalances, microscopes, prisms, strange instruments of brass and glass,\nand a bewildering litter of odds and ends, for which only a student\nof science could find a name or a use. At the further end of the room,\nunder the coloured east window, stood an escritoire covered with a\nconfused mass of paper, and beside it stood a small table piled with\nbooks.\n\nAs Mrs. Haldane and the vicar entered, the master of Foxglove Manor,\nwho had been writing, rose, laid down his pipe, buttoned his old\nvelvet shooting-jacket, and hastened forward to welcome his visitor.\n\nBaptisto gravely set a couple of chairs, and, at a sign from his\nmaster, bowed profoundly, and retired to the further end of the\napartment.\n\n\u201cDo you smoke, Mr. Santley?\u201d Mr. Haldane asked, glancing at a box of\nnew clay pipes.\n\n\u201cNo, thank you; but I do not dislike the smell of tobacco. I find,\nhowever, that smoking disagrees with me--irritates instead of\nsoothing, as professors of the weed tell me it should do.\u201d\n\n\u201cTouches the solar plexus, eh? Then beware of it! The value of\nthe solar system is often determined by the condition of the solar\nplexus.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat does seem to be frequently the case,\u201d replied Mr. Santley,\nsmiling.\n\n\u201cInvariably, my dear sir, as the ancients were well aware when they\nformulated that comprehensive, but little comprehended, proverb of\nthe sound mind in the sound body. It is curious how frequently modern\nscience finds herself demonstrating the truth of the guesses of the\nold philosophers!\u201d\n\n\u201cI perceive you are devoted to science,\u201d said Mr. Santley, waving his\nhand towards the evidences of his host\u2019s taste.\n\n\u201cOh yes, he is perpetually experimenting in some direction or other,\u201d\n said Mrs. Haldane, with a laugh. \u201cI believe he and Baptisto would\npass the night here, boiling germs or mounting all manner of invisible\nlittle monsters for the microscope, if I allowed them. You must know,\nMr. Santley, that Mr. Haldane is writing a _magnum opus_--\u2018The\nHistory of Morals,\u2019 I believe, is to be the title--and what with his\nexperiments and his chapters, he can scarcely find time to dine.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have been happy in your subject,\u201d said the vicar, turning to the\nmaster of the Manor. \u201cThe history of morals must be an enthralling\nbook. I can scarcely imagine any subject affording larger scope\nfor literary genius than this of the development of that divine law\nwritten on the heart of Adam. Why do you smile, may I ask?\u201d\n\n\u201cPardon me; I was not conscious that I did smile, except mentally. You\nwill excuse me, however, if I frankly say that I was smiling at your\nconception of the genesis of morality. What you term the divine law\nwritten on the heart of Adam represents to me a very advanced stage in\nthe development of the moral sense. We must begin far beyond Adam,\nmy dear sir, if we would arrive at a philosophic appreciation of\nthe subject. We must explore as far as possible into that misty and\nenigmatic period which precedes historical record; approach as nearly\nas may be to the time when in the savage, possibly semi-simian, brain\nof the earliest of our predecessors experience had begun to reiterate\nher proofs that what was good was to his personal advantage, and that\nwhat was bad entailed loss and suffering. It has hitherto been the\nhabit to believe that the Decalogue was revealed from Sinai in thunder\nand lightning and clouds of darkness. As a dramatic image or allegory\nonly should that be accepted. Clouds of darkness do indeed surround\nthe genesis of the moral in man, and the law has been revealed by the\ndeadly lightnings of disease and war and famine and misery, through\nunknown and innumerable generations. No divine law was written on the\nheart of the first man, or society would not be where it is to-day.\nNo; unhappily, one might say, morality has been like everything else\nhuman--like everything else, human or not,--like the coloured flower\nto the plant, the gay plumage to the bird, a dearly bought conquest, a\npainfully laboured evolution.\u201d\n\nOnce or twice during Mr. Haldane\u2019s remarks, the vicar had raised his\nhand in disclaimer, but waited till he had finished before speaking.\n\n\u201cI was about to protest,\u201d he now said, \u201cagainst several of your\nexpressions, but I fear controversy is of little good when the\ndisputants argue from different premises. I perceive that you have\naccepted a theory of life which completely shuts out God from His\ncreation.\u201d\n\n\u201cPardon me; like the old Greek, I can still raise an altar to the\nunknown God.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo a cold, remote, indifferent abstraction, then,\u201d replied Mr.\nSantley, impulsively; \u201cto a God unknowing as unknown--a vague,\nunrealizable, impersonal Power.\u201d\n\n\u201cImpersonal, I grant you, and therefore more logical, even according\nto human reason, than the huge, passionate anthropomorphism of Jew and\nChristian. Consciousness and personality imply the notion of limits and\nconditions; and which is the grander idea--a limited, conditioned\nPower, however great, or, an absolute transcendent Godhead, free from\nall the limits which govern our finite being? God cannot be conscious\nas we understand consciousness, nor personal as we understand\npersonality-If He were, then indeed we might well believe that we were\nmade after His image and likeness.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd can you find comfort in such a creed? Can you turn for strength,\nor grace, or consolation to such a power as you describe?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy should I?\u201d asked Mr. Haldane, smiling. \u201cIf I need any of these\nthings, my need is the result of some law violated or unobserved. The\nworld is ruled by law, and every breach of law entails an inescapable\npenalty. If I suffer I must endure.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is cold comfort for all the sum of misery in the world.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is the only true comfort. The rest is delusion. Preach that every\nviolated law avenges itself, not in some half mythical hell at the\nclose of a life that seems illimitable--for men never do realize that\nthey will one day die--but avenges itself here and now; preach that no\ncrucified Redeemer can interfere between the violator of the law and\nits penalty; preach that if men sin they will infallibly suffer, and\nyou will really do something to regenerate mankind. Christianity, with\nits doctrines of atonement and vicarious suffering and redemption, has\ndone as much to fill the world with vice, crime, and disease as the\nmost degraded, creed of pagan or savage. The groaning and travail of\ncreation are clamant proofs that vicarious suffering and redemption\nare the veriest dreams.\u201d\n\n\u201cEither purposely or inadvertently you mix up the physical and the\nmoral law,\u201d interposed the vicar.\n\n\u201cThe physical and the moral are but one law, articles of the one\nuniversal code of nature.\u201d\n\n\u201cTrue,\u201d said the vicar. \u201cI forgot that you denied man his immortal\nsoul, as you deny him his divine sonship. And so you are content to\nbelieve that man is born to live, labour, suffer, and perish.\u201d\n\n\u201cConcede that God is content that such should be man\u2019s destiny,\u201d\n replied Mr. Haldane, \u201cwhat then?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat then?\u201d echoed the vicar, rising from his chair with flashing\neyes and agitated face; \u201cwhy, then life is a fiendish mockery!\u201d\n\nMr. Haldane\u2019s face wore a grim smile as he heard the bitter emphasis\nof the vicar\u2019s reply.\n\n\u201cAh, my worthy friend,\u201d he said, \u201cyou illustrate how necessary it is\nthat when one has his hand full of truth he should only open it one\nfinger at a time. If you revolt thus angrily against the new gospel,\nwhat can be expected from the ignorant and the vicious? The meaning\nand purpose of life does not depend on whether the individual man\nshall perish or shall be immortal. If perish he must, he may at least\nperish heroically. Annihilation or immortality does not affect the\nvalidity of religion, whose paramount aim is not to prepare for\nanother world, but to make the best of this--to realize its ideal\ngreatness and nobility. If life should suddenly appear a mockery,\ncontrast the present with that remote past of the naked savage of the\nstone age, or the brutal condition of his more remote sylvan ancestor,\nlearning to walk erect and to articulate; and then summon up a\nvision of the possible future, when superstition shall have ceased to\nembitter man\u2019s life, when a knowledge of natural law shall have made\nmen virtuous, when disease shall have vanished from the world, and\nthe nations shall, in a golden age of peace and perfected arts, have\nlearnt the method of a patriarchal longevity. Millions of individuals\nhave wept and toiled and perished to secure for us the present; we\nand millions shall weep and toil and perish to secure the future for\nthem.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd that you take to be the significance of life, the progress of the\nrace?\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd is not that at least as noble a significance as a heaven peopled\nwith the penitent thief, the drunkard, the gallow\u2019s-bird, the\nharlot, the thousand bestial types of humanity redeemed by vicarious\nagony--the thousand brutes of civilization who, in this age, are\nnot fit for life even on this earth, to say nothing of an enlarged\nimmortality?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut with ever-rising grades of immortality before them, even those\nbestial types might ascend to a perfect manhood, and shall they\nperish?\u201d\n\n\u201cHave they not been ascending ever since the Miocene?\u201d asked Mr.\nHaldane, with a scornful laugh. \u201cHowever, it is little use discussing\nthe matter. As you have said, we cannot agree upon first principles.\nLet me show you, instead, some of my curiosities. Did you ever see the\nMentone skull? Here is a plaster cast of it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd do you accept this dark and comfortless creed of your husband?\u201d\n asked Mr. Santley, turning to Mrs. Haldane as he took the cast in his\nhand.\n\n\u201cOh no,\u201d she replied, raising her soft dark eyes to him earnestly;\n\u201cthe progress of humanity does not satisfy me as an explanation of\nthe enigma of life in man or woman. I cannot abandon my old faith and\ntrust in the God-Man for an unknown power who does not care for my\nsuffering and cannot hear my prayers. What to me can such a god be?\nAnd what can life be but a mockery if my soul, with its yearnings\nand aspirations and ideals, ceases to exist after death--has no\nother world but this, in which I know its infinite wants can never be\nsatisfied?\u201d\n\nThe vicar\u2019s face brightened, and his heart beat with a strange,\nimpulsive ardour as he listened to her. Why had this woman, whose\nenthusiasm and sympathy might have enabled him to realize his own high\nideal of the spiritual, been denied him? What evil destiny had bound\nher for ever to a man whose paralyzing creed must make a perpetual\ndivision between them--a man who could look into her sweet face and\nyet think of her as merely a beautiful animal; who could fold her in\nhis arms, and yet tranquilly accept the teaching that at death that\npure, radiant soul of hers would be for ever extinguished? These\nthoughts and feelings went through the vicars consciousness swiftly as\nsunshine and shadow over a landscape.\n\nHis eyes dropped on the plaster cast in his hand.\n\n\u201cThis is very old?\u201d he asked musingly.\n\n\u201cOne of the oldest skulls in the world,\u201d replied Mr. Haldane. \u201cIt was\ndiscovered by Dr. Rivi\u00e8re in a cave at Mentone, in a cliff overlooking\nthe sea. The man belonged to the ancient stone age, and was\ncontemporary with the mammoth and woolly rhinoceros of the\nPost-pliocene. The cave was a place of burial, and on the head of the\nskeleton was a thickly plaited network of sea-shells, with a fringe\nof deers\u2019 teeth around the edge; the limbs were adorned with bracelets\nand anklets of shells also; and in front of the face was placed a\nlittle oxide of iron, used as war-paint, no doubt.\u201d\n\n\u201cEven in the Post-pliocene, then,\u201d said the vicar, \u201cit would appear\nthat man believed in a hereafter.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, yes; it is an antique superstition, and even yet we have not\noutgrown it-Human progress is slow.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd this face was raised to the blue sky ages ago, looking for God!\u201d\n\nMr. Haldane shrugged his shoulders, and smiled grimly.\n\n\u201cHow is it possible that you, who-must share the weaknesses and\nsorrows of the human heart, can so stoically accept the horrible\nprospect of annihilation?\u201d asked the vicar, half angrily.\n\n\u201cI accept truths. Do you imagine I prefer annihilation? I could\nwish that life were ordered otherwise, but wishing\u2019 cannot change\nan eternal system. Immortality cannot be achieved by defying\u2019\nannihilation.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you realized death?\u201d exclaimed the vicar, passionately. \u201cCan\nyou, dare you, look forward to a time when, say, your wife shall lie\ncold and lifeless,--and hold to the doctrine that you have lost her\nfor ever, that never again shall your spirit mingle with hers, that\nyou and she are for all eternity divorced?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou appeal to the passions, and not to the reason,\u201d replied Mr.\nHaldane, coldly. \u201cWhat holds good for the beast which perishes, holds\ngood for all of us, and will hold good for those who come after us,\nand who will be greater and nobler than we.\u201d\n\n\u201cBe it so,\u201d replied the vicar, in an undertone. As he spoke he bit his\nlip, and his cheek coloured. The thought was not meant for utterance,\nbut it slipped into words before he was aware. For the full\nsignificance of that thought was a singular exemplification of the\nconflicting spiritual and animal natures of the man. That divorce of\ndeath which had been pronounced inevitable opened before him, in a\ndreamy vista of the future, a new world of ecstatic beatitude, where\nhis soul and the radiant spirit of the woman who stood beside him\nshould be mingled together in indissoluble communion.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII. CELESTIAL AFFINITIES.\n\n|Shortly afterwards Mrs. Haldane suggested that they should take a\nturn about the grounds, instead of wasting the sunshine indoors.\nAs they left the chapel the vicar paused and looked back at the\nivy-draped building, with its half-hidden lancets.\n\n\u201cYou have turned a sacred edifice to a strange use,\u201d he said. \u201cHere,\nwithin the walls where past generations have dwelt and worshipped,\nyou have set up your apparatus for the destruction of man\u2019s holiest\nheritage. Pardon me if I speak warmly, but to me this appears to be\nsacrilege.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Church has always been intolerant of science and research,\u201d\n replied Mr. Haldane, good-humouredly, \u201cand it is the fortune of\nconflict if sometimes we are able to make reprisals. But, seriously, I\nsee no desecration here.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo desecration in converting Gods house into a laboratory to analyze\nsoul and spirit into function and force!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo desecration,\u201d should say, \u201cin converting the shrine of a narrow,\nselfish superstition into a schoolroom where one may learn a truer\nand a grander theology, and a less presumptuous and illusive theory of\nlife. It is, however, impossible for us to be at one on these matters;\nlet us at least agree to differ amicably. Your predecessor and I found\nmuch of common interest. He was of the old school, but life had taught\nhim a kindly tolerance of opinion. To you, as I gleaned from your\nsermon yesterday, the new philosophy and modern criticism are\nfamiliar. You must surely concede that the old theological ground must\nbe immeasurably widened, if you are still resolved to occupy it.\nWhy should you fear truth, if God has indeed revealed Himself to the\nChurch?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Church does not fear truth,\u201d replied the vicar; \u201cbut she does\nfear the wild speculations and guesses at truth which unsettle the\nfaith of the world. For myself I have looked into some of these\nfantastic theories of science, and I repudiate them as at once\nblasphemous and hopeless. It is easy to destroy the old trust in the\nbeneficence of Providence, in the redemption and destiny of man; but\nwhen you have accomplished that, you can go no further. Tyndall proves\nto you that all life in the world is the outcome of antecedent life;\nHaeckel contends that science must in the long run accept spontaneous\ngeneration. Your leading men are at loggerheads; and it signifies\nlittle which is right, for in either case the _causa causans_ is only\nremoved one link further back in the chain of causation. Some of\nyou hold that there is only matter and force in the universe, but on\nothers it is beginning to dawn that possibly matter and force are in\nthe ultimate one and the same. And again, it signifies little which is\nright, for both, being conditioned, must have had a beginning. A God,\na creative Power, is needed in the long run--\u2018a power behind humanity,\nand behind all other things,\u2019 as Herbert Spencer describes it; a God\nof whom science can predicate nothing, of whom science declares it to\nbe beyond her province to speak, but of whom every heart is at some\ntime vividly conscious and has been from the beginning--demonstrably\nfrom the Paleolithic period until now.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, Mr. Santley, I am so pleased you have said that. I have often\nwished that I were able to answer my husband, but I have no power of\nargument,\u201d said Mrs. Haldane, looking gratefully at the vicar. \u201cYou\nmust not think he is not a good, a real practical Christian, in spite\nof his opinions.\u201d\n\nMr. Haldane laughed quietly as his wife slipped her hand into his.\n\n\u201cAs to the God of the Paleolithic man, Mr. Santley forgets that it was\nat best a personification of some of the great natural powers--wind;\nrain, thunder, sunshine, and moonlight; and as to Christianity, my\ndear, there is much in the teaching of Christ, and even of the Church,\nwhich I reverence and hold sacred. Morality, and the consequent\ncivilization of the world, owes more to Christianity than to any\nother creed. It has done much evil, but I think it has done more good.\nPurified from its mythic delusions, it has still a splendid future\nbefore it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd _\u00e0 propos_ of practical Christianity, Mr. Santley,\u201d continued\nMrs. Haldane, \u201cI want to talk to you about the parish. I am eager to\nbegin with my poor people again; and, by-the-bye, the children have, I\nunderstand, had no school treat yet this year. Now, sit down here and\ntell me all about your sick, in the first place.\u201d\n\nMr. Haldane stood listening to the woes and illnesses of the village\nfor a few minutes, and then left them together in deep discussions\nover flannels and medicines and nourishing food. Dinner passed\npleasantly enough. The vicar had satisfied his conscience by\nprotesting against the desecration of the chapel and the disastrous\nresults of scientific research. Clearly it was useless, and worse than\nuseless, to contend with this large-natured, clear-headed unbeliever.\nIt was infinitely more agreeable to feel the soft dark light of Mrs.\nHaldane\u2019s eyes dwelling on his face, and to listen to the music of her\nvoice as she told him of their travels abroad. In his imagination the\nscenes she described rose before him, and he and she were the central\nfigures in the clear, new landscape. He thought of their walks on the\ncliffs and on the sea-shore, in the golden days that had gone by. How\neasily it might have been!\n\nThe sun had gone down when he parted from his host and hostess at the\ngreat gate at the end of the avenue. He had declined their offer to\ndrive him over to Omberley. He preferred walking in the cool of the\nevening, and the distance was, he professed, not at all too great. As\nhe shook hands with her, that wild, etherial fancy of a world to come,\nin which her husband would have no claim to her, brightened his eyes\nand flushed his cheek. There was a strange nervous pressure in the\ntouch of his hand, and an expression of surprise started into her\nface. He noticed it at once, and was warned. Mr. Haldane\u2019s farewell\nwas bluffly cordial, and he warmly pressed the vicar to call on them\nat any time that best suited his convenience.\n\nThey were pretty sure to be always at home, and they were not likely\nto have too much company.\n\nAs he walked along the high-road, bordered on one side with the green\nmurmuring masses of foliage, and on the other with waving breadths of\ncorn, his mind was absorbed in that new dream of transcendent love.\nThere was nothing earthly or gross in this dawning glow of spiritual\npassion; indeed, it raised him in delicious exaltation beyond the\ncoarseness of the physical, till, as it suddenly occurred to him that\nsomewhere on his way Edith was waiting for him, his heart rose in\nrevulsion at the recollection of her. At the same time there was a\nlarge element of the sensuous beauty of transient humanity in that\ncelestial forecast. The pure, radiant spirit of the woman he loved\nstill wore the sweet lineaments of her earthly loveliness. Death had\nnot destroyed that magical face; those dark, luminous, loving eyes;\nthat sweet shape of womanhood. The spiritual body was cast in the\nmould of the physical, and the chief difference lay in a shining\nmistiness of colour, which floated in a sort of elusive drapery about\nthe glorified woman, and replaced the worldly silks and satins of the\nliving wife. This spiritual being was no intangible abstraction, of\nwhich only the intellect could take cognizance. As in its temporal\ncondition, it could still kiss and thrill with a touch. Clearly,\nhowever unconscious he might be of the fact, the vicar\u2019s conception of\nthe divine was intensely human, and his spiritual idealizations were\nthe immediate growth and delicate blossom of the senses.\n\nA great stillness was growing over the land as he pursued his way. The\nwoodlands had been left behind him, and their incessant murmur was now\ninaudible. Sleep and quietude had fallen on the level fields; not an\near of wheat stirred, no leaf rustled. The birds had all gone to nest,\nexcept a solitary string of belated crows, flying low down in black\ndots, against the distant silvery green horizon. The moon was\nrising through a low-lying haze, which had begun to spread over the\nlandscape. The vicar looked at his watch. It was after nine o\u2019clock.\nHe began to hope that Edith had grown tired of waiting for him, and\nhad returned home. He had a sickening feeling of repugnance and vague\ndread of meeting her.\n\nLittle more than a month after Mr. Santley had settled in Omberley,\nMiss Dove had come to live with her aunt.\n\nHer father and mother had died within a year of each other, and the\ngirl gladly accepted the offer of Mrs. Russell to consider her house\nas a home until she had had time to look about her. Edith had been\nleft sufficiently well provided for, and her aunt, the widow of a\nbanker, was in a position of independence, so that the disinterested\noffer was accepted without any sense of dependence or humiliation.\nThe bright, innocent face of the girl instantly caught the eye of\nthe vicar. He saw her frequently at her aunt\u2019s house, and gradually\nlearned to esteem, not only her excellent qualities, but to find a use\nfor her accomplishments. She was especially fond of music, and when\nthe vicar suggested that she might add to the beauty of the service\nat St. Cuthbert\u2019s by interesting herself in the choir and presiding\nat the organ, she eagerly acquiesced. The church was one of Edith\u2019s\nfavourite haunts; and when the vicar, who was himself a lover of\nmusic, heard the soul-stirring vibrations of some masterpiece of the\ngreat composers, his steps were drawn by an easily explicable fatality\nto the side of the pretty performer. Still, it was a fatality. Slowly,\nand imperceptibly at first, the sense of pleasure at meeting grew up\nbetween the two; then swiftly and imperceptibly they found that there\nwas something in the presence of each other that satisfied a\nvague, indefinable craving; and lastly, with a sudden access of\nself-consciousness, they looked into each other\u2019s eyes, and each\nbecame gladly and tremulously aware of the other\u2019s love. Edith was\nstill young, almost too young yet to assume the station of the wife of\nthe spiritual head of the parish; and Mr. Santley was not sure as to\nthe manner in which his sister would receive the intimation that there\nwas, even in the remote future, to be a new mistress brought to the\nVicarage. The girl was, however, still too happy in the knowledge that\nshe was beloved to look forward to marriage. With a strange, feminine\ninconsistency, she regarded their union with a certain dread and\nshamefacedness. It seemed such a dreadful exposure that all the\nvillage should know that they loved each other. \u201cOh no, no; it must\nnot be for a long, long time yet!\u201d she once exclaimed nervously. \u201cIs\nit not sufficient happiness to know that I am yours and you are mine?\nI cannot bear to think that every one must know our secret.\u201d To have\nthose long, pleasant chats under cover of the music; to be invited\nto the Vicarage, and to sit and talk with him there; to receive those\nhaphazard glances, as it were, while he was preaching; to be escorted\nhome by him in the evening when it was dark, and no one could see that\nher hand was on his arm; to receive those almost stolen kisses; to\nfeel his arm about her waist what more could maiden desire to dream\nover for weeks and months--for years, if need were?\n\nEdith was endowed with the intense feminine faith and fervid ideality\nof the worshipper. To sit at her lover\u2019s feet and to look up adoringly\nto him, was at once her favourite mental and physical attitude. On her\nside, she exercised a curious spiritual influence over him. There was\nsuch an aerial brightness and lightness about her, such sweet fragile\nloveliness in her form and figure, such tender abandonment of self in\nher disposition, that he felt he had not only a woman to love, but a\nbeautiful childlike soul to keep unspotted from the world, to\nguide through the dark ways of life to the arms of the great loving\nFatherhood of God. The presence of Edith helped him to banish the dark\ndoubts and evil promptings of the spirit of unbelief. When she spoke\nto him of her spiritual experiences, he felt joyous ascensions of\nthe heart which raised him nearer to heaven. She created in him the\nunspeakable holy longings and vague wants that give the lives of the\nmystic saints of Roman Catholicism so singular a blending of divine\nillumination and voluptuous colour. Unconsciously the vicar was\nrealizing in his own nature Swedenborg\u2019s doctrine of celestial\naffinities. This love restored to him the innocence and ardour of the\ndays of Eden; he had found at once his Eve and his Paradise, and he\nfelt that, as of old, God still walked in the garden in the cool of\nthe day. Some such glamour surrounds the first developments of every\nsincere attachment. It is the first rosy tingling flush of dawn, dim\nand sweet and dreamy, and, like the dawn, it glows and brightens into\nthe fierce clear heat of broad day, burning the dew from the petal and\nwithering the blossom.\n\nAs Mr. Santley\u2019s thoughts turned to Edith, the recollection of these\nthings came vividly upon him. Only a week ago, and she was the one\nwoman in the world he believed he could have chosen for his wife. In\nan instant, at the sight of a face, all had been changed. His love had\nbecome a burthen, a shame, a dread to him. Edith had grown hateful to\nhim. At the same time, he could not deaden the sting of remorse as\nhe reflected on his broken vows. The passionate protestations he had\nuttered sounded again in his ears in accents of bitter mockery; the\npledges he had given seemed now to him hideous blasphemies.\n\nAt a bend of the road he suddenly came in sight of a figure moving\nbefore him in the dusk. He knew at a glance it was she, and he\nprepared himself for the meeting. Although he earnestly wished to\ndisembarrass himself of her, he found himself unable to do so at once\nand brutally. He would try to estrange her, and free himself little by\nlittle.\n\nAs they approached each other he saw that Edith\u2019s face was grave and\nsad. She was trying to learn from his look in what manner she ought to\nspeak to him.\n\nHis assurances on the previous evening had not tranquillized her, and\nshe had still a terrible misgiving that a chasm was widening between\nthem.\n\nThe vicar was the first to speak.\n\n\u201cI am a little later than I expected,\u201d he said, as he held out his\nhand to her.\n\n\u201cIt does not signify _now_. I was only afraid that you might be so\nlate I should have to go home without seeing you.\u201d\n\nHe made no reply, and they walked on side by side in silence for a few\nseconds. At last she stopped abruptly and looked at him.\n\n\u201cCharles,\u201d she said, \u201cyou know what you said to me last night?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\n\u201cWas it true?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy should you ask such a question? Why should you doubt its truth?\u201d\n\n\u201cI try not to doubt it, but I cannot help it. Oh, tell me again that\nyou do not hate and contemn me! Tell me you still love me.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy dear Edith,\u201d replied the vicar, laying his hand on her arm, \u201cyou\nare not well. You have been overtaxing your strength and exciting\nyourself.\u201d\n\nEdith did not answer, but the tears rose to her eyes and began to run\ndown her cheeks. She did not sob or make any sound of weeping, but her\nhand was pressed against her throat.\n\n\u201cCome, don\u2019t cry like that; you know I cannot bear to see you cry.\u201d\n\nHe stopped as he spoke, and took her hand in his. They stood still a\nlittle while, and she at length was able to speak.\n\n\u201cDo you remember,\u201d she asked in a low, broken voice, \u201cthat I once told\nyou you were my conscience?\u201d\n\nHe regarded her uneasily before he replied.\n\n\u201cYes; you once said that, I know. But why return to that now?\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd have you not been?\u201d\n\nHe was silent.\n\n\u201cYour word,\u201d she continued, \u201chas been my law; what you have said I\nhave believed. Have I done wrong?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy are you letting these things trouble you now?\u201d he asked\nimpatiently.\n\n\u201cBecause I know that when a woman gives herself wholly to the man she\nloves, it is common for her to lose him, and I have begun to feel that\nI am losing you.\u201d\n\n\u201cI do not think I have given you any reason to feel that.\u201d\n\nShe did not speak again immediately, but stood with her innocent blue\neyes raised beseechingly to his face. Suddenly she took hold of his\nhands, and said--\n\n\u201cYou told me that in the eyes of God we were man and wife, that\nno marriage ceremony could ever join us together more truly, that\nmarriage really consisted in the union of heart and soul, not in\nthe words of any priest--did you not? Was that true? Am I still your\nlittle wife?\u201d\n\nHe hesitated. The blood had vanished from his cheek, leaving it\nhaggard and pale; she felt his hands trembling in hers. Then, with\na sudden impulse, he took her face between his hands and drew her\ntowards him, as he answered--\n\n\u201cYou are, darling. I will not do you any wrong.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII. A SICK-CALL.\n\n|Mr. Santley\u2019s reply was as sincere at the moment it was spoken as\nit was impulsive. The saner and better part of him rose in sudden\nsympathy towards this young, confiding girl who had laid her whole\nbeing in his hands, to be his treasure or his plaything. He resolved\nto be faithful to the solemn pledge he had given her, and to cast\nfrom him for ever all thought of Mrs. Haldane, and all memory of that\npassionate episode of the past. He drew Edith\u2019s hand under his arm and\nheld it there. That warm little bit of responsive flesh and blood had\nstill, he felt, a power to thrill through his nature. He bent down\nand kissed it. For some time their conversation was embarrassed, but\ngradually all sense of doubt and estrangement vanished, and he was\ntelling her about his visit to the Manor. A pressure was laid upon\nhim to make her such amends as he was able for his coldness during the\npast week, and he determined to break the spell which Mrs. Haldane\u2019s\nbeauty threw over him by revealing their old friendship to Edith. It\nwas not wise, but under the stress of remorse and a reviving passion\nmen seldom act wisely. Except in the case of a jealous disposition, a\nwoman is always pleased to hear of her lover\u2019s old vaguely cherished\nlove affairs, when there is no possibility of their ever coming to\nlife again. She knows instinctively, even when she is not told so\nadoringly, that she supersedes all her predecessors and combines\nall their virtues and charms. He loved this one for her beauty and\nsweetness, that one for her clear bright intelligence; each in a\ndifferent way; but her he loves in both the old ways, and in a new way\nalso which she alone could inspire.\n\n\u201cMrs. Haldane was an old pupil of mine--indeed, a favourite\npupil--many years ago; so, naturally, I am much interested in her,\u201d\n said the vicar in a tentative manner.\n\nThe words were a revelation to Edith; they explained to her all her\nuneasiness and all his change of manner.\n\n\u201cAnd you find that you still love her a little?\u201d Edith ventured to say\nin a sad, faltering tone.\n\n\u201cI never said I loved her, my dear,\u201d replied the vicar, with a forced\nlaugh.\n\n\u201cBut you did, did you not? She was your favourite pupil.\u201d\n\nHow uncomfortably keen-sighted this young person seemed to be, in\nspite of her soft, endearing ways!\n\n\u201cWould you be a little jealous if I said I did?\u201d he asked, regarding\nher with a scrutinizing look.\n\n\u201cJealous! Oh no. Why should I? Is she not married? And am I not really\nand truly your little wife?\u201d\n\nHe pressed her hand gently for answer.\n\n\u201cAnd when you saw her again last Sunday, and saw how beautiful she\nwas,\u201d Edith continued, \u201cyou felt sorry that you had lost her--just a\nlittle regretful, did you not?\u201d\n\nThe vicar hesitated, and then did the most foolish thing a man can do\nin such circumstances--confessed the truth.\n\n\u201cYou will not be vexed, darling, if I say that I did feel regret?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou loved her very much?\u201d\n\n\u201cShe was my first love.\u201d replied the vicar. \u201cBut you must remember it\nwas years ago. Long before I knew you; when I was quite a young man.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd was she very fond of you?\u201d Edith went on quietly.\n\n\u201cI used to think she was.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut she was not true to you?\u201d\n\n\u201cI do not blame her. I do not think it was her fault. Her people were\nwealthy, and I was poor, a poor teacher.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd it was this made you so cold and hard to me all last week?\u201d\n\nMr. Santley did not answer at once.\n\nIt would be brutal to say yes, and he dared not hazard a denial.\n\n\u201cOh, Charles, she never loved you as I have.\u201d\n\n\u201cNever, never,\u201d replied the vicar hurriedly; and a flush rose to his\nface.\n\n\u201cWhen you meet her, when you see her again,\u201d said Edith, grasping his\narm with earnest emphasis, \u201cwill you remember that? Promise me.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will never forget it,\u201d said the vicar in a low voice.\n\nHe did not see Mrs. Haldane again, however, during the week. On the\nfollowing Sunday his eyes wandered only for a moment towards the Manor\npew, and he perceived that she was alone. When he met her after the\nservice his manner was constrained, but she appeared not to notice it.\nShe spoke again of the parish work, and told him that in a day or two\nshe would drive over and accompany him on some of his calls. He looked\nforward with uneasiness and self-distrust to her cooperation in his\ndaily work. There was an irresistible something, a magical atmosphere,\nan invisible radiation of the enticing about this woman. Her large\nglowing black eyes seemed to fasten upon his soul and draw it beyond\nhis control. Her starry smile intoxicated and maddened him. Beside\nher, Edith was but a weak, delicate child, with a child\u2019s clinging\nattachment, a child\u2019s credulity and trust, a child\u2019s little gusts of\npassion. His lost love was a woman--such a woman as men in old\ntimes would have perished for as a queen, would have worshipped as a\ngoddess--such a woman, he fancied, as that Naomi whose beauty has been\nthe mysterious tradition of five thousand years.\n\nEarly one afternoon, about the middle of the week, the vicar was\njust about to set out on his customary round of visitation, when\nMrs. Haldane\u2019s pony-carriage drove up to the gate. He assisted her to\nalight, and returned with her to the house.\n\nMiss Santley, who had been as sensitive to the change in her brother\nas Edith herself, regarded Mrs. Haldane with little favour. She was\nready to acknowledge that it was very good and kind of the mistress of\nFoxglove Manor to interest herself in the wants and suffering of the\nparish, but she entertained grave misgivings as to the prudence of\nher brother and this old pupil of his being thrown too frequently\ntogether. She was just a little formal and reserved with her visitor,\nwho announced her intention of going with the vicar to this sick-call\nhe had spoken of.\n\n\u201cYou will have to walk, however,\u201d said Mr. Santley, \u201cas the cottage is\nsome little distance across the fields.\u201d\n\n\u201cI came prepared for walking,\u201d she replied, with a laugh. \u201cJames can\nput up at the village till our return.\u201d\n\n\u201cWill you do us the favour of taking tea with us?\u201d asked Miss Santley,\n\u201cYou will, require it, if my brother takes you his usual round.\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you, I shall be very glad. If James calls for me at--what time\nshall I say?--six, will that be soon enough?\u201d The coachman received\nhis instructions, and Mr. Santley and Mrs. Haldane set out on their\nfirst combined mission. They traversed half a dozen fields, and came\nin sight of a small cluster of cottages lying low in a green hollow.\nA narrow lane ran past them to Omberley in one direction and to the\nhigh-road in another. Half a dozen poplars grew in a line along the\nlane, and the cottages were surrounded by small gardens, filled with\nfruit trees.\n\n\u201cWhat a picturesque little spot!\u201d exclaimed Mrs. Haldane. \u201cI think\nnothing looks so pretty as an English cottage with its white walls and\ntiled roof peering out from a cluster of apple; and pear trees.\u201d\n\n\u201cPretty enough, but damp!\u201d replied the vicar. \u201cIn wet weather they are\nin a perfect quagmire. Ah, listen!\u201d\n\nThey were now very near the houses, and the sound to which Mr. Santley\ncalled her attention was the voice of a man crying out in great pain.\n\n\u201cWhat can it be?\u201d asked Mrs. Haldane, with a look of alarm.\n\n\u201cIt is the poor fellow we are going to see. He was knocked down and\nrun over by a cart about two years ago. His spine has been injured,\nand the doctors can do nothing for him. He is quite helpless, and has\nbeen bedridden all that time.\u201d\n\n\u201cPoor creature! what a dreadful thing it must be to suffer like that!\u201d\n\n\u201cSometimes for weeks together he feels no pain. Then he is suddenly\nseized by the most fearful torture, and you can hear his cries for a\ngreat distance.\u201d\n\nAs they approached the cottage the man\u2019s voice grew louder, and they\ncould distinguish his words: \u201cOh, what shall I do? Oh, who\u2019ll tell me\nwhat to do?\u201d\n\nMrs. Haldane shuddered. In that green, peaceful, picturesque spot that\npersistent reiteration of the man\u2019s agony was horrible.\n\n\u201cWill you come in?\u201d asked the vicar doubtfully.\n\nHis companion signed her assent, and Mr. Santley knocked gently at the\ndoor. In a few seconds some one was heard coming down the staircase,\nand a little gray-haired, gray-faced woman, dressed in black, came to\nthe door and curtsied to her visitors.\n\n\u201cMansfield is very bad again to-day?\u201d said the vicar.\n\n\u201cAy, this be one of his bad days, sir. He have been that bad since\nSunday, I haven\u2019t known what to do with him.\u201d\n\nThe voice of the sick man suddenly ceased, and he appeared to be\nlistening.\n\n\u201cWho\u2019s there?\u201d he shrieked out, after a pause. \u201cJennie; blast you!\nwho\u2019s there?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe be raving mad, ma\u2019am!\u201d said Mrs. Mansfield, apologetically. \u201cHe\ndon\u2019t know what he is saying.\u201d\n\n\u201cJennie, you damned little varmint----\u201d\n\n\u201cHush, John, it be the parson!\u201d his wife called up the staircase.\n\n\u201cTo hell with the parson! Oh, what shall I do? Oh, who\u2019ll tell me what\nto do?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll go up to him, sir, and tell him you\u2019re here. He be very bad\nto-day, poor soul! Will it please you to walk in, ma\u2019am?\u201d\n\nThe little woman went upstairs, and her entrance to the sick-room was\ngreeted with a volley of foul curses screamed out in furious rage.\nGradually, however, the access of passion was exhausted, and the man\nwas again heard repeating his hopeless appeal for relief.\n\n\u201cHow do they live?\u201d asked Mrs. Haldane, glancing about the small but\nscrupulously clean room in which she stood. \u201cHave they any grown-up\nchildren?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, only their two selves. She is the bread-winner. She does knitting\nand sewing, and the neighbours, who are very kind to her, assist her\nwith her garden and do her many little kindnesses.\u201d\n\n\u201cPoor woman! And she has endured this horrible infliction for two\nyears!\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you please, sir, you can come up now,\u201d said Mrs. Mansfield from\nthe top of the stairs.\n\nThe vicar went up, and Mrs. Haldane followed him. They entered a\npretty large whitewashed bedroom, with raftered roof and a four-post\nbedstead in the centre of the room. Though meagrely furnished,\neverything was spotlessly clean and tidy. On the bed lay a great gaunt\nman, panting and moaning, with his large filmy blue eyes turned up\nto the roof. He was far above the common stature, and his huge wasted\nframe, only half hidden by the bedclothes, was piteous to look at. His\nlarge venerable head, covered with thin, long white hair, filled\none with surprise and regretful admiration. His face was thin and\ncolourless, and a fringe of white beard gave it a still more deathly\nappearance. One could scarcely believe that the wreck before him was\na common labourer. It seemed rather such a spectacle as Beatrice Cenci\nmight have looked on had her father died cursing on his bed.\n\n\u201cHere\u2019s parson come to see thee, and a lady wi\u2019 him,\u201d said Mrs.\nMansfield, raising her husband\u2019s head.\n\nHe looked at them with his glazed blue eyes, made prominent with pain,\nand his moaning grew louder, till they could again distinguish the\nconstant cry for release from pain: \u201cOh, what shall I do? Oh, who\u2019ll\ntell me what to do?\u201d\n\n\u201cTry to think of God, and pray to Him for help,\u201d said the vicar,\nbending over the suffering man.\n\n\u201cOh, I have prayed and prayed and prayed,\u201d he replied querulously;\n\u201cbut it does no good.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe were praying all day yesterday and singing hymns,\u201d said Mrs.\nMans-held. \u201cI don\u2019t know what\u2019s gotten hold of him to-day, but he have\nbeen dreadful. And he were ever such a pious, God-fearing man. It fair\nbreaks my heart to hear him swearing like that. But God will not count\nit against him, for he\u2019s been clean beside himself.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, let me hear you pray now, Mansfield,\u201d said the vicar. \u201cTurn\nyour heart and your mind to God, and He will comfort you.\u201d\n\n\u201cO God,\u201d said the sick man, with the obedient simplicity of a child,\n\u201cI turn my heart and my mind to Thee; do Thou comfort me and take me\nto Thyself. O Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God and Saviour of mankind,\ndo Thou remember me in Thy paradise. Look down upon me, O Lord, a\nmiserable offender, and spare Thou them which confess their faults and\nare truly penitent.\u201d\n\nWith a strange light on his white, wasted face, with his gaunt hands\nfolded on the counterpane before him, the old man sat up in bed and\nprayed in the same loud voice of pain and semi-delirium. A wild,\ninconceivable, interminable prayer; for long after they had left\nthe house, old Mansfield could be heard some hundreds of yards away,\nscreaming to God for mercy and consolation.\n\n\u201cWe had better leave him praying,\u201d said the vicar softly; \u201cand when he\nbegins cursing and swearing again, Mrs. Mansfield, just kneel down and\npray in a loud voice beside him. It will suggest a new current to his\nthoughts.\u201d\n\n\u201cGod won\u2019t count his cursing against him, sir, will he?\u201d asked the\nlittle woman. \u201cHe were ever a sober Christian man till this misery\ncame on him.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no,\u201d said the vicar; \u201cGod judges the heart, not the tongue of\ndelirium.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow old is your husband?\u201d inquired Mrs. Haldane.\n\n\u201cHe be eighty-one come Martinmas, ma\u2019am.\u201d\n\n\u201cPoor old man! And you do sewing and knitting, do you not?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, ma\u2019am, what he lets me do. He be main fractious whiles.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd have you plenty to go on with at present?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have what\u2019ll keep me busy for a fortnight yet.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will see you again before then. I hope your husband will soon be\nbetter.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere be no hope of that, ma\u2019am. The only betterness for him \u2018ll be\nwhen God takes him.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know you will be able to find a use for this,\u201d said Mrs. Haldane in\na whisper, as they went, out of the house. \u201cGoodbye for the present.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, ma\u2019am! God bless you!\u201d said Mrs. Mansfield, the tears springing\ninto her eyes as she looked at the gold coin in her hand.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX. A SUMMER SHOWER.\n\n|After that first round of visitation Mrs. Haldane and the vicar met\nvery frequently.\n\nShe found that she could be of use to a great number of poor people,\nand the occupation afforded her by her self-imposed duties was novel\nand interesting. It is pleasant to take the place of Providence, and\nmete out help and gladness to afflicted humanity. She was actuated by\nno petty spirit of vanity or ostentation; and though she soon learned\nthat the poorer and more necessitous people are, the more thankless\nthey are as a rule, these disagreeable experiences did not disillusion\nher. Very often she would leave her carriage at the village inn and\naccompany Mr. Santley on foot across the fields and down the deep\ngreen lanes to the different houses at which he was to call. Their\nconversations on these occasions were very interesting to her;\nand more than once as she drove back home in the evening she fell\na-thinking of that distant schoolgirl past which Jiad so nearly faded\naway from her memory, and began to wonder whether, if her family had\nnot so promptly extinguished that little romance of hers, she would\nnow have been the wife of the vicar of Omberley. No word had yet\npassed between them of that old time, and occasionally she felt just\nthe least curiosity to know how he regarded it. She knew he had not\nforgotten it, and she smiled to herself as she called to mind the way\nin which he had addressed her as \u201cEllen\u201d that first Sunday. She\nhad ever since been only Mrs. Haldane to him. There was a singular\nfascination about him which she was unable to explain to herself.\nShe remembered his words, his looks his gestures with a curious\ndistinctness. She was conscious that, notwithstanding his reticence,\nhe still entertained a warm attachment to her. She could see it in his\neyes, could hear it in the tones of his voice, could feel it in the\npressure of his hand. There is no incentive to affection so powerful\nand subtle as the knowledge that one is beloved. Without any analysis\nof her feelings or any misgiving whatever, Mrs. Haldane knew that the\nvicar\u2019s friendship was very dear to her, that his sympathy and counsel\nwere rapidly growing indispensable. Many things troubled her in\nconnection with her husband--his indifference to any form of\nreligion, his stern acceptance of the conclusions of science, however\ndestructive they might be of all that the world had clung to as\nessential to goodness and happiness, his utter disbelief of the truths\nof revelation, his rejection of the only God in whom she could place\ntrust and confidence. Diffidently at first, and with pain and doubt,\nshe spoke to Mr. Santley of these troubles, and of the waverings of\nher own convictions. Her husband was so good, so upright and noble a\nman, that she could not despair of his some day returning to the faith\nand the Church of his boyhood. Could the vicar not aid her in winning\nhim back to God? Then, too, at times her husband\u2019s words appealed to\nher reason so irresistibly that she began to question whether after\nall she had not spent her life in the worship of a delusion. That did\nnot happen often, but it terrified her that it should be possible\nfor her at any time or in any circumstance to call in question the\nfatherhood of God or the divinity of Christ.\n\nIt was only natural that these matters-should draw the vicar and\nhis fair parishioner very close to each other; and that intimate\nrelationship of soul with soul by subtle degrees widened and widened\ntill each became deeply interested in everything that could in any\nway affect the other. In spite of his strongest resolve to be true to\nEdith, Mr. Santley felt himself irresistibly drawn to her beautiful\nrival. He struggled with the enchantment till further resistance\nseemed useless, and then he sought refuge in self-deception. His\nnature, he fancied, was wide enough to include the love of both.\nTo Edith he could give the affection of a husband, to Ellen the\nanticipative passion of a disfranchised spirit. One was a temporal,\nthe other an eternal sentiment.\n\nOne afternoon, as they were returning from a visit, being on the\nedge of the moss about a couple of miles from the village, they were\novertaken by a storm. There was a clump of trees hard by, and they\nentered it for shelter. Mrs. Haldane had her waterproof with her; but\nthe rain drove in such drenching showers, that the vicar insisted on\nher standing under his umbrella and sheltering her person with her\nown. Side by side, with the large trunk of a beech-tree behind them\nand its tossing branches overhead, they stood there for nearly half an\nhour. He held his umbrella over her so that his arm almost touched her\nfurther shoulder. They were very close together, and while she watched\nthe flying volleys of rain he was gazing on the beautiful complexion\nof her face and neck, on the rich dark masses of her hair, her sweet\narched eyebrows and long curving eyelashes. For years he had not been\nable to regard her so closely. She did not notice his scrutiny at\nfirst, but, when she did, little sunny flushes of colour made her\nloveliness still more electrical. They were talking of the storm at\nfirst, but now there was an interval of silence. She felt his eyes\nupon her face--they seemed to touch her, and the contract made her\ncheeks glow. At last she turned and looked straight at him.\n\n\u201cI was thinking of long ago,\u201d he said in answer to her look; \u201cdo you\nremember how once we were caught by a thunderstorm at Seacombe, and we\nstood together under a tree just as we are now?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat an excellent memory you have!\u201d she said with a smile, while her\ncolour again rose.\n\n\u201cI never forget anything,\u201d rejoined Mr. Santley with emphasis. \u201cBut\nsurely you too recollect that?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh yes; I have not forgotten it,\u201d she said lightly. \u201cWe were very\nfoolish people in those days.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe were very happy people, were we not?\n\n\u201cYes, I think we were; it was a childish happiness.\u201d\n\n\u201cManhood, then, has brought me no greater. Ah, Ellen, you seem to have\neasily let the past slip away from you. With me it is as vivid to-day\nas if it were only yesterday that you and I walked on the cliffs\ntogether. Do you remember we went to the gipsy\u2019s camp in the\nsand-hills, and had our fortunes told?\u201d\n\nMrs. Haldane blushed and laughed.\n\n\u201cWe were foolish enough to do anything, I think, at that time.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat pretty gipsy girl with the dark almond eyes and red-and-amber\nheaddress was sadly out in her reading of our destinies.\u201d\n\nMrs. Haldane made no reply. These reminiscences, and especially the\ntone in which the vicar dwelt on them, disquieted her.\n\n\u201cI think the worst of the shower is over now,\u201d she said, stepping from\nunder his umbrella. As she spoke, however, a fresh gust of wind and\nrain contradicted her, and she stepped further into the shelter of the\ntree. Mr. Santley clearly understood the significance of her words and\naction.\n\n\u201cIt is raining far too heavily to go yet,\u201d he said gently. \u201cLet me\nhold my umbrella over you.\u201d\n\nShe consented a little uneasily, but he laid his hand upon her arm and\nsaid--\n\n\u201cI have displeased you by referring to the past, have I not? Come,\nbe frank with me. Surely we are good enough friends by this to speak\ncandidly to each other.\u201d\n\nShe raised her great dark eyes to his face and replied gravely,\n\n\u201cI do not like you to speak of the past in that way. I do not think\nit is right. I hope we _are_ good enough friends to speak candidly. I\nhave trusted you as a friend, as a very dear and true friend. I wish\nto keep you always my friend; but when you spoke just now of\nour childish liking for each other, I do not think you spoke as\na--friend.\u201d\n\nThe vicar was silent, and his eyes were cast on the ground.\n\n\u201cHave I done you an injustice?\u201d she asked in a low tone, after a\nlittle pause. \u201cThen, pray, do forgive me.\u201d\n\nThe vicar regarded her with a look of sadness, and took the little\ngloved hand she held out to him.\n\n\u201cYou do me injustice in thinking that I have forgotten your position.\u201d\n\nMrs. Haldane coloured deeply.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d continued the vicar, \u201cI have not forgotten that. I _cannot_\nforget it. And if I still love you with the old love of those vanished\nyears, if I love you with a love which will colour my whole life, do\nnot imagine that it is with any hope of a response in this world. I\ndo your husband no injustice; I do you no dishonour. I loved you long\nbefore he knew you; I shall love you still in that after life in which\nhe has deliberately abandoned all claim to you in the very existence\nof which he places no belief. Between this and then let me be your\nfriend--your brother; let me be as one in whom you will ever find\nsympathy and devotedness; one who can share and understand all your\ndoubts and distress, all your temptations and trials. I do not ask you\nto love me; I only ask you to let me love you.\u201d This gust of passion\nwas so sudden, so unexpected, so overwhelming, that almost before she\nwas aware, he had spoken and she had listened. And now as she thought\nof what he said a strangely mixed sensation of doubt and pleasure\nawoke within her. All that he wished to be he was indeed already\nin her eyes--her adviser, sympathiser, friend. Only this secret\nunexpectant love which lived on the past and the future agitated her.\nAnd yet surely it was a pure spiritual love which asked for no return\non this side of the grave. These thoughts occurred to her before she\ntook the sober common-sense view of what he had said.\n\n\u201cYou are taking too visionary, too feverish a view of life when you\nspeak in that way,\u201d she said gently. \u201cWe cannot live on dreams. Our\nduties, our work, our disappointments and cares are too real for us to\nbe satisfied with any love less real. You will some day meet some one\nworthy of your affection, capable of sympathising with you and aiding\nyou in your life-work--some one who will be a fitting helpmeet to you.\nFor my part, I think that whenever we have missed what we are apt to\nconsider a great happiness it is a sure sign that God intends some\nbetter thing for us.\u201d\n\nThe vicar shook his head silently.\n\n\u201cOh, you must have more faith!\u201d she continued brightly. \u201cAnd it ought\nto be very easy for you to have faith in this matter. You have all the\nadvantages on your side. And, if I may be frank with you, I will say\nthat I think you would be happier if you _were_ married. You need some\nresponsive heart, and nowhere could one more need close companionship\nthan in such a place as Omberley.\u201d\n\nThe rain had ceased, and as she spoke the last words she glanced up at\nthe clouds breaking away from the sunny blue of the sky.\n\n\u201cI think we may safely start now. How bright and sweet everything\nlooks after the rain; and what a fragrance the fields have!\u201d\n\nMr. Santley did not attempt to renew the conversation. Clearly she was\nnot in the mood, and he believed that what he had said had fallen\nas seed in a generous soil, and would germinate in the warmth of her\nfervid temperament. It was enough that she knew he still loved her.\n\nSuch a knowledge is ever dangerous to an imaginative woman. For\nseveral days after that incident Mrs. Haldane never thought of\nthe vicar, never heard his name mentioned without at the same time\nunconsciously recalling--or rather without having flashed upon her a\nmental picture not only of that little wood near the moss, but of the\nromantic shore at Seacombe. She felt a strange tender interest in the\nman who had loved her so long, and still loved her so hopelessly, so\nunselfishly. Hitherto in their relationship she had only thought of\nherself, of her own needs and her own happiness. She had looked up to\nhim. But that avowal had changed their position towards one another\nin a singular way. He to whom every one felt entitled to appeal to\nfor advice, assistance, consolation, was evidently himself in need of\nhuman affection. She had hitherto regarded the priest rather than the\nman, but now the man chiefly engaged her attention, and attracted her\nsympathy while he excited and perplexed her imagination. What could\nshe do to be of service to him? She set her woman\u2019s wit to work in a\nwoman\u2019s way, and speedily arrived at one means of serving him.\n\n\u201cGeorge,\u201d she said to her husband one morning at breakfast, \u201cI have\nbeen thinking of asking an old schoolfellow of mine, Hettie Taylor, to\ncome and spend a few weeks with us. She lives in London, and she will\nbe delighted with the change to the country, I know. What do you say?\u201d\n\n\u201cBeginning to feel lonely already?\u201d he asked, glancing up at her.\n\n\u201cOh no, not at all. Only I have been thinking of her, and should like\nto have her with me again for a little while. I am sure you will\nlike her. She is very pretty--such beautiful brown hair and eyes--and\ndecidedly intellectual.\u201d\n\n\u201cAsk her by all means, then.\u201d\n\n\u201cThanks. I will write to her to-day. No, not to-day--I shall be busy\nseeing after the children\u2019s picnic. Will you not come, dear? You know\nyou love children.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo a picnic, my dear girl!\u201d cried Mr. Haldane aghast.\n\n\u201cYes, in Barton Wood. The children are all going in a couple of\nwaggons. And there will be some of the old people there if the weather\nis fine. Do come.\u201d\n\n\u201cA picnic, my dear Nell, is pure atavism--it is one of those lapses\ninto savagery which betray the aboriginal arboreal blood,\u201d said\nMr. Haldane, laughing. \u201cNo, no; I have too much respect for the\ncivilization of the century and for my personal comfort to willingly\nretrograde to the Drift Period.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X. THE KISS.\n\n|The artist in search of a pretty rural subject could not do better\nthan paint a village holiday--a holiday from which the men and women\nare all but excluded, and the village school-children and the old\npeople are gathered together for a voyage through the leafy lanes to\nthe picturesque playground of a neighbouring wood. Such an enjoyable\nspectacle as that presented on the day of the Omberley school-treat\ndeserved to be immortalized by art, if only for the sake of filling a\ncity parlour with a sense of eternal summer. It was a glorious August\nmorning that laughed out over Omberley on the day of the great picnic.\nThe young people were astir early, for it had been impossible to sleep\nfrom the excitement they felt after the first glimmer of dawn. About\nten o\u2019clock the streets were gay with troops of children, clean,\nrosy-cheeked, and dressed in their Sunday clothes, who went singing\nto the rendezvous at the schoolhouse. There they were received by Miss\nDora Greatheart, who inspected them all, and expressed her approbation\nat finding them so neat and prim. In twos and threes the old people,\nthe men in tall hats and swallow-tailed coats for the most part, and\nthe women in their best black gowns and church bonnets, came slowly\nalong the road, gossiping and laughing and breathing hard with the\nweakness of old age. Then came the musicians--old Gabriel Ware, the\nsexton, with his fiddle, and two younger men, one of whom played the\nconcertina and the other the cornopean, each with a huge nosegay in\nhis breast and wearing the jauntiest air conceivable. There was\na happy buzz of excitement about the schoolhouse as the people\nassembled; a joyous babble of the clear treble voices of little lads\nand lasses, and the piping notes of garrulous patriarchs and ancient\ndames; a strange picture, as pathetic as it was pretty, of bright\nyoung faces and dancing little figures mingling among gray wrinkled\nvisages and frail stooping shapes.\n\n\u201cWell, Dora, we are to have a fine day,\u201d said Edith, as she entered\nthe garden and shook hands with the schoolmistress.\n\n\u201cSplendid; only we shall be a little late in starting. We should have\nbeen off at ten, and the waggons have not come yet. Why, here is old\nDaddy coming!\u201d\n\nShe had stepped out to the road to look for the waggons, and now she\nwent to welcome the new arrival whom she called Daddy. He was a very\nold, very wiry little man, with a funny little face full of wrinkles,\na pair of little grey eyes, and a perfectly bald head. This was the\noldest inhabitant of Omberley; and though he was in his ninety-second\nyear, he was as brisk and hearty as many who were twenty years his\njuniors.\n\n\u201cWell, Daddy, you have actually come!\u201d said Dora, shaking hands with\nhim. \u201cI am very glad. And how do you feel to-day? Pretty strong and\nhearty?\u2019\n\n\u201cStrong as Samson, mistress, and hearty as--hearty as anything,\u201d\n replied the old man, with a chuckle.\n\n\u201cPlease, miss,\u201d said a young woman who accompanied him, \u201cmother sends\nher duty, and will you kindly take care of him and see as he doesn\u2019t\ngo a-thinking.\u201d\n\nDaddy\u2019s only symptom of senility was an aptitude to fall into a state\nof unconsciousness, and in these cases, which sometimes lasted for\nhours together, he would sit down wherever he was, and consequently\nran considerable risks when he went out-of-doors alone. Though the old\nfellow was quite unable to give any account of himself during these\nlapses into oblivion, he always stoutly declared that he had been only\nthinking.\n\n\u201cAnd please, miss, you\u2019ll find his bacca-box and his pipe in his tail\npocket, and his hankercher, and the matches is in his vest pocket. He\ndo forget where he puts his things.\u201d\n\nDaddy laughed scornfully.\n\n\u201cI never forgets nothing, I don\u2019t,\u201d he said boastingly. \u201cI can mind\no\u2019 the great beech as was blown down on the green in the whirlywind\nof \u201892; ay, I mind----\u201d\n\nA loud cheer from the school children interrupted the flow of Daddy\u2019s\nreminiscences. The greeting was intended for the vicar and the\npatroness of the festival, Mrs. Haldane, who now drove up to the\nschool-house. She was already acquainted with Dora, but she had not\nyet met either Edith or the oldest inhabitant. Mr. Santley introduced\nboth as the waggons came in sight, and at once the cheering was\nrenewed, and the children streamed out into the road. What a fine\nsight those waggons were v--the long, curved, wheeled ships of the\ninland farmer, painted yellow and red, and drawn by big horses, with\nhuge collars and bright iron chains! The semicircular canvas awning\nhad been removed, but the wooden arches which supported it were\nwreathed with leaves and flowers, and festoons hung overhead between\narch and arch. The horses, too, were gaily decked out, each having a\nnosegay between its ears, and its mane and tail tied up with ribbons.\nThe bottom of the waggons were covered with trusses of straw, to make\ncomfortable seats for the old folk. The more daring of the lads were\nalready clambering up the wheels, and securing seats on the flakes\nwhich went along the sides of the rustic ship like a sort of\noutrigger.\n\nBefore allowing Daddy to be helped on board, Miss Greatheart beckoned\nto her a little pale-faced girl who was obliged to use crutches.\n\n\u201cNannie dear, I want you to look after Daddy as much as you can. When\nyou are tired of him you must come and tell me. Don\u2019t let him go away\nby himself, and wake him up if he sleeps too long.\u201d\n\nThis was said in a whisper to the child, who smiled and nodded.\n\n\u201cNow, Daddy, here\u2019s little Nannie Swales,\u201d said Dora; \u201cI want you to\ntake care of her. You\u2019re the only person I can trust to look after her\nproperly. And she likes to talk to you and see you smoke.\u201d\n\nThe little old man smiled and chuckled complacently.\n\n\u201cPut her aside of me, mistress, and I\u2019ll see as no ill comes to her.\u201d\n\nWhat could have been more charmingly idyllic than those two great\nwaggons, crowded with little shining-eyed tots, merry lads and lasses,\nwithered old men and women, all happy and contented? The blue sky\nlaughed down on them; the green leaves and flowers embowered them;\nand as a start was; made, one of the musicians struck up \u201cFor we\u2019ll\na-hunting go\u201d on the concertina, and a score of clear, fresh voices\njoined in the jovial song.\n\nThrough the village, which turned out to wave hands to them as they\npassed singing and cheering, away through gold-green stretches of\nripening harvest, past empty fields where the hay had all been cut and\ncarted, between level expanses of root crops lying green in the hot\nsun, till at last the dark embankment of Barton Wood rises above the\ndistant sky. How cool and refreshing it is, after the glare of the\nmidday sun, to get into the green shadowland of these grand old\nbeeches and sycamores!\n\nThe road winds leisurely as if to seek out the coolest recesses of the\nwood, and beneath the great bunches of heavy foliage, what quiet,\ndim distances one sees between the trunks, strewn thick with withered\nleaves, through which the moss and grass and a thousand moist plants\nthrust their emerald way, and blue and pink and yellow flowers are\nclustered in cushions of velvet colour! A few yards away from the\nroad the air seems brown and transparent. That must be the reason why\nthe leaves of the mountain ash are so darkly green, and the berries so\nbrilliantly crimson. If you pluck a bunch and take it out of the wood,\nyou will find it has become disenchanted; the colour is no longer the\nsame.\n\nThe road is not a highway, but leads to an old quarry of brown\nsandstone. There has been no work done here for a few years, but\nmany generations of stonemasons have plied hammer and chisel in this\npicturesque workshop. It is a tradition that the stone of Foxglove\nManor, old as it is, was got here. The old church was built from these\nbrown walls of stone; so was the Vicarage, and so were the windowsills\nand facings of all the houses in Omberley. It is an unusually large\nquarry, for a great deal of stone has been taken away during these\ntwo hundred odd years. A great deal of half-shaped stone lies about in\nlarge square and oblong blocks, both on the floor of the quarry, and\namong the trees at its entrance. The trees must have sprung up since\nmany of these blocks were cut, otherwise it is not easy to see why\nthey should have been put where you now find them. On two sides the\nwalls of rock are high and precipitous, but on the others the grass\nand ferns and beeches are carried into the quarry as on the swell of a\ngreen wave. A stone shed and hut, roofed with red tiles, stand at the\nfoot of one of these slopes, and here the commissariat department has\nestablished itself. A romantic, green, cosy, convenient spot for a\npicnic and a dance!\n\nThe waggons were driven right into the quarry, and the horses were\nhobbled and allowed to graze beneath the trees. The hour before\ndinner was spent in wandering through the woods gathering flowers\nand berries, in rolling about on the soft grass, or in smoking and\nchatting among the blocks of sandstone. When the cornopean sounded\nthe signal for the feast, the youngsters came trooping in, dancing\nand eager to begin, for the excitement had prevented most of them from\ntaking breakfast.\n\nAnd what a luxurious feast it was The vicar, Mrs. Haldane, Edith, and\nMiss Greatheart, went about the various groups seeing that every one\nwas well supplied with what they liked best. After the cold meats,\npies, and pastry, came a liberal distribution of fruit and milk to\nthe children, and a glass of wine to the old people; and at this\npoint Daddy was made the object of so much nudging and whispering and\nsignalling, that at last he got upon his feet and made a wonderful\nlittle speech on behalf of the company, keeping his wine-glass in his\nhand all the time, and every now and then holding it up between his\neye and the light with the shrewd air of a connoisseur. Then there\nwere three cheers for Mrs. Haldane, and three cheers for the vicar,\nthree for Dora and for Edith, and happily some young rascal, whose\nmilk had been too strong for him, proposed in a frightened scream\nthree cheers for. Daddy, which were very heartily given by all the\nschool children, though the seniors looked much shocked and surprised\nat so daring a demonstration.\n\nIn about an hour the racing and games were to begin, and meanwhile\nMrs. Haldane, the vicar, and the two young ladies were to have lunch\ntogether. It is not necessary to enter into any detail of the various\nsports which took place, or to linger over the dancing and merrymaking\nthat followed. When the fun was at its height, and Daddy was capering\ngaily to the jigging of the small orchestra, Edith, who felt only half\ninterested, slipped quietly away into the wood. She was not surprised\nor aggrieved that Mr. Santley paid so much attention to the lady of\nthe Manor, but she felt hurt that he seemed so completely to forget\nand overlook herself. She wished now to be a little alone in Arden,\nfor Edith loved the woods, and in every glade she could imagine in her\nfanciful moments that Jaques, or Rosalind, or Touchstone had just gone\nby, so closely had she associated the dramatic idyl with every piece\nof English forest-land.\n\nShe followed at haphazard a foot-track that went through the trees\nuntil she reached a brook, which she found she could cross by means\nof three slippery-looking stepping-stones, against which the water\nbickered and gurgled as it raced along. All the steep banks were\nknee-deep in beautiful ferns close by the waters edge, and higher up\nthe slope grew luxurious tufts of wild flowers. The sound of-the water\nwas very pleasant to hear, and when she had nimbly jumped across it,\ninstead of following the path, she went up the side of the stream to\nwhere a mountain ash leaned its dense clusters of blood-bright berries\nright across. At the foot of the tree was a large boulder, and, after\na glance round her, she sat down and drew off her shoes and\nstockings. The weather was warm, and the clear, sun-flecked water was\nirresistibly inviting. There she sat for some time, dreamily paddling\nwith her little white feet, like a pretty dryad whose tree grew in too\ndry a soil.\n\nShe had finished playing with the cool stream, and was letting her\nfeet dry in the patches of sunlight that pierced through the branches\nabove her, when she heard a sound of voices. She hastily tried to draw\non her stockings, but her skin was still too moist; and so, gathering\nher feet under her skirt, she concealed herself as much as possible\nfrom the observation of the intruders. As they approached she\nrecognized the voices with a start, and crouched down behind the\nboulder more closely than before.\n\n\u201cWe can go no further this way,\u201d said Mrs. Haldane.\n\n\u201cOh yes, we can. I will assist you over the stones,\u201d the vicar\nrejoined.\n\n\u201cThey look very treacherous and slippery, and the water makes one\nnervous, running so fast.\u201d\n\n\u201cLook, it is quite safe!\u201d said the vicar; and Edith, peeping from the\nside of the boulder, saw him step quickly across the brook. \u201cIt is a\npity you should miss the old Roman camp, when you are so near it.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you will come back and assist me from this side, I will try them,\u201d\n said Mrs. Haldane..\n\nThe vicar returned across the brook, and Edith saw the lady gather her\ndress and prepare to step on to the first stone.\n\n\u201cNow, you must be ready to reach me your hand in case I need it.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, you will find it quite easy when you try. Don\u2019t stop, but go\nright across without hesitation.\u201d\n\nMrs. Haldane jumped fairly enough on to the first boulder, but,\ninstead of allowing the forward impetus to carry her on, she tried to\nstop and steady herself on the narrow footing among the rushing water.\nShe lost at once her balance and her courage, and turning to him with\noutstretched arms, she cried out, \u201cQuick! quick! I shall fall!\u201d\n\nShe threw herself back to the side as she spoke, and he caught her in\nhis arms. Her arms were about his neck, her face close to his; he\nfelt her breath upon his cheek. It was only for an instant, and as\nshe tried to recover herself, their eyes met with a flash of\nself-consciousness. In the passionate excitement of that supreme\nmoment he strained her to his breast, and pressed his lips to her in a\nlong, violent kiss.\n\nEdith sprang to her feet as though she had been stung; but instantly\nshe recollected herself, and sank down into her hiding-place.\n\nMrs. Haldane tore herself from the arms that encircled her, and\nfronted the vicar with a flushed, angry face.\n\n\u201cAre you mad, Mr. Santley?\u201d she asked indignantly. \u201cAllow me to pass\nat once.\u201d\n\nHe stood aside trembling, white, and speechless; and she swept by him\nand hurried back through the wood.\n\nThe vicar looked after her, but stood as if rooted to the spot; while\nEdith, heedless of the hard stones and her naked feet, ran down wildly\nto the stepping-stones.\n\nHe turned as she approached, and there, with the water whirling\nbetween them, she confronted him like his outraged conscience.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI. EDITH.\n\n|Is this your fidelity? is this your love?\u201d she asked bitterly.\n\nThe deadly pallor of the vicars face had given place to a flush of\nguilt and shame. He crossed the brook and stood beside her.\n\n\u201cEdith, I have done wrong. Can you forgive me?\u201d he asked, attempting\nto take her hand.\n\n\u201cDo not touch me, Mr. Santley!\u201d she exclaimed, stepping back from him.\n\u201cDo not speak to me.\u201d\n\n\u201cWill you not forgive me, Edith?\u201d\n\n\u201cAsk God to forgive you. It matters little now whether I forgive or\nnot. Please go away and leave me.\u201d\n\n\u201cI cannot leave you in this manner. Say you forgive. I confess I\nhave done wrong, but it was in the heat of passion, it was not\npremeditated.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe heat of passion! Was it only in the heat of passion that you----\nOh, go at once, Mr. Santley! Go before I say what had better be left\nunspoken!\u201d The vicar paused and looked at her anxiously; but Edith,\nthrowing her shoes and stockings on the ground, sat down on a stone,\nand resting her pale, unhappy face on her hands, gazed with a hard,\nfixed expression at the water.\n\n\u201cDearest Edith, try to believe that what I did was only an act of\nmomentary madness; blame me if you will, for I cannot too severely\nblame myself, but do not look so relentless and unforgiving.\u201d\n\nShe never stirred or gave any indication that she had heard him, but\nsat staring at the water.\n\n\u201cYou will be sorry for your unkindness afterwards,\u201d he continued.\n\nShe paid no heed to him, and he saw it was hopeless to try to effect a\nreconciliation at the present moment.\n\n\u201cSince you command me to go, I will go.\u201d\n\nStill she appeared not to have heard him. He went back across the\nbrook, and, glancing back once or twice, disappeared in the wood. A\nminute or two later he stole back again, and saw that she was still\nsitting by the brook in the same stony attitude. A vague sense of\nuneasiness took possession of him. He knew that even the meekest,\nfrailest, and gentlest of women are capable of the most tragic\nextremities when under the sway of passion. Yet what could he do?\nShe would not speak to him, and was deaf to all he could say in\nextenuation of his conduct. Trusting to the effect of a little\nquiet reflection, and to the love which he knew she felt for him,\nhe resolved at length to leave her to herself. After all he had, it\nseemed to him, more to fear from Mrs. Haldane than from Edith. To what\nfrightful consequences he had exposed himself by that act of folly!\nWould she tell her husband? Would the story leak out and become the\nscandal of the country side? With a sickening dread of what the future\nhad in store for him, he retraced his steps to the quarry.\n\nMrs. Haldane\u2019s first impulse was to order her carriage and at once\ndrive home, but her hurried walk through the wood gradually became\nslower as she reflected on the strange interpretation that would be\nput upon so sudden a departure. She had brought the vicar, and if she\nnow hastened away without him, evil tongues would soon be busied with\nboth her name and his. For the sake of the office he held, and for her\nown sake as well, she resolved to be silent on what had happened. She\nfelt sure that the vicar would be sufficiently punished by the stings\nof his own conscience, and if any future chastisement were required\nhe should find it in her distance and frigid treatment of him.\nConsequently, when Mrs. Haldane reached the quarry she assumed a\ncheerful, friendly air, stopped to say a few kind words to the old\npeople, and interested herself in the amusements of the children. It\nwas now drawing near tea-time, and the sun was westering.\n\nMr. Santley felt relieved when he found that Mrs. Haldane had not\nabruptly left, as he dreaded she would do, but he made no attempt to\nspeak to her or attract her attention. At tea-time she took a cup in\nher hand and joined a group of little girls, instead of taking her\nplace at the table set aside for her.\n\nThe vicar\u2019s eye glanced restlessly about for Edith, but she had not\nobeyed the summons of the cornopean, and in the bustle and excitement,\nher absence was not noticed. It was only when the horses had been put\ninto the shafts, and the children, after being counted, were taking\ntheir places in the waggons, that Miss Greatheart missed her.\n\n\u201cHave you seen Miss Dove, Mr. Santley?\u201d she asked, after she had\nsearched in vain through the little crowd for Edith. \u201cI don\u2019t think\nshe was at tea.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe went in the direction of the old camp,\u201d replied the#vicar,\nhurriedly; \u201cshe cannot have heard the signal. Do not say anything. I\nthink I shall be easily able to find her. If Mrs. Haldane asks for me,\nwill you say I have gone to look for her? You can start as soon as you\nare ready; we shall easily overtake you.\u201d\n\nSo saying, Mr. Santley plunged into the wood, and hurried to the\nbrook. Edith was still sitting where he had left her, but she had in\nthe meanwhile put on her shoes and stockings. Instead of the\nfixed, determined expression, her face now wore a look of intense\nwretchedness, and evidently she had been crying. She looked up at the\nsound of his footsteps.\n\n\u201cEdith, we are going home,\u201d he said, as he reached the edge of the\nstream.\n\n\u201cYou can go,\u201d was the answer.\n\n\u201cBut not without you.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, without me. I am not going home. I am never going home any more.\nI have no home. Oh! mother, mother!\u201d\n\nThe last words were uttered in a low, sobbing voice.\n\n\u201cCome, come, you must not speak like that. You must go home. What\nwould your poor aunt say if you did anything so foolish?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, what would she say if she knew how I have disgraced her and\nmyself? No, I cannot go home any more.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you cannot stay here all night,\u201d said the vicar, with a chill,\nsinking tremor at the heart.\n\nShe gave no answer.\n\n\u201cEdith, my dear girl, for God\u2019s sake do not say you are thinking of\ndoing anything rash!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat else can I do? What else am I fit for but disgrace and a\nmiserable end? Oh, Mr. Santley, you swore to me that before God I was\nyour true wife. I believed you then. I did not think you were only\nacting in a moment of passion. But now I see that it was a dreadful\nsin. I was not your wife; and oh! what have you made me instead?\u201d\n\nHe was very pale, and he trembled from head to foot as he listened to\nher words.\n\n\u201cDo not speak so loud,\u201d he said in a hoarse whisper.\n\n\u201cWhat! do you feel ashamed? Are you afraid of any one knowing? But God\nknows it now, and my poor, poor mother knows it--God help me!--and all\nthe world will know it some day.\u201d\n\n\u201cEdith, you will not ruin me?\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you not ruined me? Have you not cast me off for a woman who\ndoes not even care for you--for another man\u2019s wife? Oh no, do not be\nafraid. I will take my shame with me in silence. No one shall be able\nto say a word against you now, but all the world will know at the\nlast.\u201d\n\n\u201cEdith, listen to me. I will tell you everything; I will hide nothing\nfrom you; but do not condemn me unheard. All that I said to you was\ntrue, and is still true. Till _she_ came, I did really and most truly\nlove you with all my heart and soul. You were my very wife, in God\u2019s\neyes, if love and truth be, as they are, what makes the validity\nof marriage. I did not deceive you; I did not speak in a moment of\npassion. Before Heaven I took you for my wife, and before Heaven I\nbelieved myself your husband.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd then she came!\u201d interposed Edith, bitterly.\n\n\u201cAnd then she came. I have told you all she was to me once, all\nI hoped she would one day be. But I have not told you how I have\nstruggled to be true to you in every word and thought. It has been a\nhard and a bitter struggle--all the more hard and bitter that I have\nfailed. I confess, Edith, that I have not been true. But are we all\nsinless? are we perfect?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe can at least be honourable. Your love of her is a crime.\u201d\n\n\u201cHer beauty maddens me. She is my evil angel. To see her is to love\nher and long for her. And instead of helping me to conquer temptation,\ninstead of trying to save me from myself, you cast me from you, you\nupbraid my weakness, you taunt me with your unhappiness. When she is\nnot near, my better nature turns to you. You help me to believe in\nGod, in goodness; she drives me to unbelief and atheism. Did you fancy\nI was a saint? Have not I my passions and temptations as well as other\nmen? Even the just man falls seven times a day; if you indeed loved me\nas a true wife, you would find it in your heart to forgive even unto\nseventy times seven.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou know how I have loved!\u201d\n\n\u201c_Have_ loved! Ay, and how easily you have ceased to love!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no; I have never ceased to love you. It is because I must still\nlove and love you that I am so wretched.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen how can you be so unforgiving?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, I am not unforgiving. I can forgive you anything, so long as I\nknow that I am dear to you. Seven and seventy-seven times.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd you forgive me now?\u201d\n\n\u201cI do. But you will never any more----\u201d\n\n\u201cYou must help me not to; you must pray for me, and assist me to be\never faithful to you.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will, I will.\u201d\n\nHe drew her to him, and kissed her on the lips.\n\n\u201cAnd you will come home now?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, with you.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe waggons have started, and we must walk quickly to overtake them.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, I don\u2019t care now how far we have to walk.\u201d\n\n\u201cMrs. Haldane, however, may have waited for us.\u201d\n\nEdith stopped short.\n\n\u201cI couldn\u2019t go near her.\u201d\n\n\u201cConsider a moment, darling. She knows nothing about you, and she does\nnot know that you know anything about her. It might look strange if\nshe drove home without me, after bringing me here. I feared at first\nthat she would have left instantly, but she did not. She may not\nwish to give people any reason for talking about any sudden coolness\nbetween us. Do you understand me?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes. I will go.\u201d\n\nThe vicar had correctly divined the course Mrs. Haldane had pursued.\nWhen she learned that Mr. Santley had gone in search of Edith, she\ndrove very leisurely along, so that they might overtake her. She had\njust got clear of the wood when, on looking round, she observed them\ncoming through the trees. She drew up till they reached her; and when\nthey had got in, she started a brisk conversation with Edith on all\nmanner of topics. She was in her liveliest mood, and to Edith it\nseemed almost incredible that the scene she had witnessed at the brook\nwas a very serious fact, and not an hallucination. Edith noticed,\nhowever, that the vicar seldom spoke, and that, though Mrs. Haldane\nlistened and answered when he made any remark, the conversation was\nbetween Mrs. Haldane and herself.\n\nAt parting Mrs. Haldane gave him her finger-tips, and was apparently\npaying more attention to Edith when she said good-bye to him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII. CONSCIENCE.\n\n|Mrs. Haldane came no more to the Vicarage that week, and on Sunday\nshe did not remain, as she had hitherto done, for the communion at the\nclose of the morning service. She was evidently deeply offended, and\nwas doing all she could to avoid meeting the vicar. With him that week\nhad been one of terrible conflict. Tortured with remorse and shame, he\nwas still mad with passion. That kiss was still burning on his lips.\nHe still could feel that voluptuous form in his arms. It seemed,\nindeed, as though Mrs. Haldane were his evil genius, driving him on\nto destruction. He was unable to pray; and when he sat down to prepare\nhis sermon, her face rose between him and the paper, and, starting\nup, he rushed from the house and walked rapidly away into the country.\nThis was in the forenoon, and he walked on and on at a quick pace for\nseveral hours. He passed little hamlets and farmsteads which he did\nnot notice, for his mind was absorbed in a wretchedness so intense\nthat he scarcely was conscious of what he was doing. In the afternoon\nhe came to a wood, and, worn out with fatigue and agitation, he\nentered it and flung himself beneath the shadow of a tree.\n\nThere he lay, a prey to conscience, till the sun went down. He had had\nno food since morning, and he was now weak and nervous. He returned\nfrom the wood to the high-road and retraced his steps homeward. As he\npassed by the wayside cottages, he was tempted once or twice to stop\nand ask for bread and milk, but after a mental contest he each time\nconquered the pangs of hunger and thirst, and went on again. The\nfathers of the desert had subdued the lusts of the flesh by hunger and\nstripes and physical suffering, and if mortification could exorcise\nthe evil spirit within him, he would have no mercy on himself. He was\na great distance from home, and, notwithstanding his resolution to\nsuffer and endure, he was several times forced to sit down and rest on\nheaps of broken stones by the wayside; and on one of these occasions\na spray of bramble-berries hanging over the hedge caught his eye,\nand looked so rich and sweet that he plucked one and raised it to his\nmouth. The next moment, however, he had flung it away from him. On\nanother occasion he was startled to his feet by the sound of wheels,\nand as he walked on he was overtaken by a neighbouring farmer in his\ngig, who drew up as he was passing, and touched his hat.\n\n\u201cMaking for home, Mr. Santley?\u201d he asked, as he shook up the cushion\non the vacant seat beside him. \u201cI can put you down at your own door,\nsir.\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you, Mr. Henderson; I prefer walking, and I have some business\nto attend to.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll right, sir. It\u2019s a fine evening for a walk. Good-bye.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood-bye.\u201d\n\nThe vicar watched the gig diminish on the distant road till at\nlength the hedgerows concealed it, with a certain sense of stoical\nsatisfaction. He felt he was not all weakness; there was yet left\nsome power of self-denial, some fortitude to endure self-inflicted\nchastisement.\n\nIt was nearly dark when he arrived again in Omberley. The windows were\nruddy with fire and gaslight; there were no children playing in the\nstreets; several of the small shopkeepers who kept open late, were now\nat last putting up their shutters. There was a genial glow from the\nred-curtained window of the village inn, and a sound of singing and\nmerriment.\n\n\u201cWhy should I not go in and join them?\u201d he thought to himself. \u201cWhat\nan effect it would have, if I stepped into the sanded taproom and\ncalled for a pipe and a quart of beer! The vicar smoking a long clay,\nwith his frothing pewter on the deal table beside him! Why not? Has\nnot the vicar his gross appetites as well as you? Why should you be\nscandalized, friends, if he should indulge in the same merry way as\nyourselves? Is he not a mere man like you, with the same animal needs\nand cravings? Fools, who shrink with horror from the humanity of a man\nbecause he wears a black coat and talks to you of duty and sacrifice\nand godliness! How little you know the poor wretch to whom you look\nfor counsel and comfort and mediation with Heaven!\u201d\n\nHe was turning away, when the taproom door was flung open, and half\na dozen tipsy men, cursing and quarrelling, staggered out into the\nstreet.\n\nAmong them was a handsome, swarthy girl of two and twenty, gaily\ndressed in colours, with a coloured handkerchief bound over her black\nhair, and a guitar in her hand. They were evidently quarrelling about\nthe girl, who was doing her best to make peace among them.\n\n\u201cYou does me no good by your fighting and kicking up a row, masters.\nDecent folks won\u2019t let a wench into the house when there\u2019s always a\nfight got up about her. You spoils my market, and gets me an ill name,\nmasters.\u201d\n\n\u201cAny way, Jack Haywood shan\u2019t lay a finger on thee, Sal!\u201d cried a\nburly young fellow, deep in his cups, as he clenched his horny fist\nand shook it at Jack.\n\n\u201cWhat is\u2019t to you what Jack does?\u201d returned the girl, saucily.\n\u201cNeither Jack nor thee shall lay a finger on me against my will. I\nreckon I can take care o\u2019 myself, masters.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, ay, thou canst that!\u201d assented several voices.\n\nThe vicar, who had stood to witness this scene, now stepped in among\nthe group. The men recognized him, and, touching their forelocks,\nslunk away in sheepish silence. He uttered not a word, but his pale\nface sobered them like a dash of cold water. Only the girl was left,\nand she stood, red and frightened, while her hands were nervously\nbusied with the guitar.\n\n\u201cYou are back again, Sal, and at your old ways,\u201d said the vicar, in a\nlow voice. \u201cI see, all good advice and all encouragement are wasted on\nyou.\u201d\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t help it, sir,\u201d said the girl, sullenly. \u201cI was born bad; I\u2019m\nof a bad lot. It\u2019s no use trying any more. It\u2019s in the blood and the\nbone, and it\u2019ll come out, in spite of everything.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you made much to-day?\u201d asked the vicar.\n\n\u201cA shilling.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere are you going to stop tonight?\u201d\n\n\u201cAt old Mary Henson\u2019s, in Bara Street.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen, go home at once, Sal,\u201d said the vicar, giving her a half-crown.\n\u201cWill you promise me?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd you will speak to no man tonight? You promise?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said the girl, taking the money, with a strange look of inquiry\nat the vicar.\n\n\u201cAnd try to say your prayers before you go to sleep.\u201d\n\nThe girl dropped a curtsy, and went slowly down the street. With a\nbitter laugh, the vicar pursued his way homeward.\n\n\u201cIn the blood and the bone! In the blood and the bone!\u201d he; repeated\nto himself. \u201cYou are right, girl; we are born bad--born bad. The\nbestial madness of ages and aeons, the lust and lasciviousness of\ncountless generations, are still in our blood, and our instincts\nare still the instincts of the beast and the savage. Hypocrite and\nblasphemer that I am! Whited sepulchre, reeking with corruption!\nLiving lie and mask of holiness! O God, what a wretch am I, who dare,\nto speak of purity and repentance to this woman!\u201d\n\nWhen he reached the Vicarage, his sister was anxiously awaiting him,\nand supper was ready.\n\n\u201cWhere have you been so long?\u201d she asked, a little impatiently. \u201cI\nthink you might leave word when you expect to be detained beyond your\nusual time. It is eleven o\u2019clock.\u201d\n\n\u201cI could not say how long I should be,\u201d replied the vicar, with a\nweary look, which touched his sister and changed her ill-temper to\nsolicitude.\n\n\u201cYou are quite tired out, poor fellow,\u201d she said, laying her hand on\nhis shoulder. \u201cWell, come to supper. It is ready.\u201d\n\n\u201cI cannot take anything at present,\u201d replied Mr. Santley. \u201cI will, go\nand do a little of my sermon.\u201d\n\n\u201cShall I leave something out for you, then?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, please. Good night.\u201d\n\nHe went into the study, lit the gas, and, locking the door, flung\nhimself into an armchair.\n\n\u201cIn the blood! in the blood!\u201d he bitterly communed with himself. \u201cAnd,\nwith all our wild dreams and aspirations, we are but what science says\nwe are, the conqueror of the lascivious ape, the offspring of some\ncommon ancestral bestiality, which transmitted to the simian its\nanimalism free and unfettered except by appetite, and to man the germs\nof a moral law which must be for ever at variance with his sensual\ninstincts. God! we are worse than apes--we the immortals, with our\nideals of spirit and purity!\u201d\n\nHe rose, and going across the room to the tall, carved oak cupboard,\nwhose contents were a secret to all but himself, he unlocked it and\nopened the folding doors. The light fell on a large, beautiful statue\nof the Madonna, with the Infant Christ in her arms. The figure was in\nplaster, exquisitely coloured, and of a rare loveliness. He looked at\nit abstractedly for a long while.\n\n\u201cMother of God!\u201d he exclaimed at length, with passionate fervour.\n\u201cSpotless virgin, woman above all women glorified, the solitary boast\nof our tainted nature--oh, dream and desire of men striving for their\nlost innocence, how vainly have I worshipped and prayed to thee! How\nardently have I believed in thy immaculate motherhood! How yearningly\nI have cried to thee for thy aid and intercession! And no answer has\nbeen granted to my supplications. My feverish exaltation has passed\nfrom me, leaving me weak and at the mercy of my senses. Art thou,\ntoo, but a poetic myth of a later superstition--an idealization more\nbeautiful, more divine than the frail goddesses of Greece and Rome?\nThe art and poetry of the world have turned to thee for inspiration,\nthe ascetic has filled the cold cell with the shining vision of thee,\naltars have been raised to thee over half the globe, the prayers of\nnations ascend to thee, and art thou but a beautiful conception of the\nheart, powerless to aid or to hear thy suppliants?\u201d\n\nHe paused, as if, indeed, he expected some sign or word in answer to\nhis wild appeal. Then, closing the doors again and locking them, he\nwent towards his-desk. On it lay the manuscript of the sermon he had\npreached on the Unknown God.\n\n\u201cThe Unknown God!\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cWhat if her husband is right! What\nif, indeed, there be no God, no God for us, no God of whom we shall\never be conscious! All science points that way. When the man is dead,\nhis soul is dead too. We deny it; but what is our denial worth? It is\nour interest to deny it. All phenomena contradict our denial. No man\nhas ever risen from the grave to give us assurance of our immortality.\nAh, truly, \u2018if there be no resurrection of the dead, then is Christ\nnot risen; and if Christ be not risen, then is our preaching vain, and\nyour faith is also vain!\u2019\u201d\n\nHe paced the room excitedly.\n\n\u201cWhy act the knave and the hypocrite longer? Why delude the world\nwith a false hope of a future that can never be? Why preach prayer\nand sacrifice, and suffering and patience, when this life is all? If\nChrist is not risen, our preaching is vain, and your faith is also\nvain.\u201d\n\nHe again paced the room; and then, going to a drawer where the keys of\nthe church were kept, he took them, and stole noiselessly out of the\nhouse. All was very still outside. The stars were shining, and it was\nduskily clear. He traversed the churchyard, and reaching the porch\nhe unlocked the door and entered. It was quite dark, except that the\ntall, narrow windows looked grey against the blackness of the rest of\nthe building, and a little bead of flame burned in the sanctuary lamp.\nHe closed the door after him, and went up the echoing nave to the\nchancel. Thence he groped his way to the pulpit, and ascending he\nlooked down into the darkness before him.\n\nHe stood there in silence, straining his eyes into the gloom, and\ngradually there came out of the darkness faint, spectral rows of\nfaces, turned up to his with a horrified and bewildered aspect. He\nuttered no word, but in his brain he was preaching from the text of\nPaul, and proving that Christ, indeed, had never risen, and that their\nfaith was vain. This world was all, and there was nothing beyond it.\nVice and virtue were but social and physical distinctions, implying\nthat the consequences of the one were destructive of happiness, of the\nother were conducive to happiness. Sin was a fiction, and the sense\nof sinfulness a morbid development of the imagination. Every man was a\nlaw unto himself, and that law must be obeyed. A mans actions were the\noutcome of his constitution. He was not morally responsible for them.\nIndeed, moral responsibility was a philosophical error. In dumb show\nwas that long, phrenzied sermon preached to a phantom congregation. At\nthe close the vicar, omitting the usual form of benediction, descended\nfrom the pulpit, staggered across the chancel, and fell in a swoon at\nthe foot of the steps which led to the altar.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII. IN THE LABORATORY.\n\n|The grey dawn was glimmering through the chancel when Mr. Santley\nregained consciousness. He looked wonderingly about him, and at first\nwas unable to understand how he came to be in his present position.\nThat physical collapse had been a merciful relief from a state of\nmental tension which had become intolerable. He felt faint but calm,\nand the horrible excitement of the last few hours presented itself\nto his memory as a sort of ghastly nightmare from which he had been\nprovidentially awakened.\n\nHe rose and went out into the churchyard. The air was moist and cool.\nA strange white mist lay in fantastic pools and streaks on the bare\nhayfields. The corn was full of an indistinct white gauzy vapour. So\nwere the trees. There was not much of it in the open air. It had a\nspectral look, and, like spirits, it seemed to require some material\nthing to interpenetrate and rest upon. The grass was heavy with dew,\nand the gravelled walk as dark coloured as though there had been rain.\nFrom the corn came the sound of innumerable chirpings and twitterings.\nThe fields seemed to be swarming with sweet, sharp musical notes. In\nthe trees, too, though there was no stir of wings, there was a very\ntumult of bird-song--not the full, joyous outpouring, but a ceaseless\norchestral tuning up and rehearsing as it were. The familiar graveyard\nin this unusual misty light, and alive with this strange music, seemed\na place in which ne had never been before. The effect was as novel as\nthe first appearance of a well-known landscape buried in snow.\n\nThe newness of what was so familiar excited an indefinable interest in\nhim. He felt somehow as though he had passed through the valley of the\nshadow, and this was the day after death--that death by which we\nshall not all die, but by which we and all things shall be changed.\nHe lingered in that mental state in which thought expands beyond the\nbounds of consciousness, and it was not till a low, faint flush of\nred began to colour the east that he returned to the Vicarage, and,\nthrowing himself on his bed, fell into the deep, dreamless sleep of\nexhaustion.\n\nIt was fortunate for Mr. Santley that he had inherited a magnificent\nconstitution, or the consequences of this wild conflict might have\nbeen disastrous. He woke late, but the brief period of rest and\nunconsciousness had repaired the reckless waste of nervous force. Only\na profound sadness remained as a testimony of the terrible nature of\nthe emotion he had endured. The rest of the week passed in a sort of\nweary, listless stupor and the same heavy sadness. When Sunday came\nround, he shuddered as he ascended the pulpit at the recollection\nof that phantasmal audience to which he had last preached; but his\nintellect was clear and sane, and he kept faithfully to the written\ndiscourse spread out before him. He was not surprised that Mrs.\nHaldane left before he had any opportunity of speaking to her.\n\nHe had half expected as much. She regarded him with a cold, haughty\ncontempt--a contempt too passionless to permit her even to avenge the\ninsult he had offered her by exposing him to his parishioners. She\nknew he loved her--and indeed was not this folly proof of the frantic\ncharacter of his love?--and she knew that total loss of her would be\nthe greatest chastisement even vindictiveness could wish to inflict\nupon him. It would have been possible for him, he thought, to bear\nin silence any punishment from her except this icy contempt and utter\nindifference. If she had hated him, if she had pursued him with bitter\nhostility, if she had disgraced him, he could have endured it; it\nwould have been no more than he merited. But that she should simply\nignore him, that she should not consider it worth her while even to be\nangry, was an intolerable humiliation.\n\nIn spite of all, he still loved her! It was useless to seek to delude\nhimself into any belief to the contrary. He loved her, in defiance of\nhonour, goodness; in spite of misery and shame; in spite of divine or\nhuman law; in spite of man or God. He loved her with a mad, despairing\npassion, which he might conceal from all eyes for a little while, but\nwhich he could never quell; which he felt would some day break out\nin a frantic paroxysm that would involve both him and her in a common\nruin. Home, position, reputation, this life and the next--he could\nsacrifice all for her. He could not exist without her. To see her and\nbe never seen by her was a living hell. If he were, indeed, to be for\never doomed to this misery, better that he should perish at once, and\nhave done for ever with the torture of being.\n\nThis alternative presented itself to the vicar not merely as one of\nthose exaggerated expressions of feeling common to many men in\nmoments of unendurable pain or depression, but as a sober reality. An\nexistence in which Mrs. Haldane took no part and shared no interest\nwas literally to him an existence more hateful than self-destruction\nitself. On the Monday he proceeded to the neighbouring market town,\nand bought a revolver and a packet of cartridges. He loaded the weapon\non the road, and threw the remaining cartridges away. That evening he\nspent in looking over his papers, a large number of which he burned.\nHe then sat down, and wrote for some time; but when he had finished,\nhe threw what he had written into the fire. What need was there to put\nany explanation on record? He then took from the bookcase the great\npoem of Lucretius, and read till a late hour.\n\nNext morning he arose early, and seemed in better spirits than he had\nbeen for some time. He told his sister that he was going to walk over\nto Foxglove Manor, and was not certain as to when he would return. He\nleft the house, humming a tune, and set out at a brisk pace through\nthe village. The weather was bright and inspiriting. The country never\nbefore seemed so full of health and gladness and joyous life. The\nlark was singing far up in the shining blue sky; butterflies went\nfluttering across the road; whirring flights of birds along the\nhedgerows preceded him all the way. He looked at everything and\nnoticed everything--the bright flowers growing among the wayside\nweeds; the snail which had crept on to the footpath, and whose shell\nhe carefully avoided. He observed too much to think; but one thought,\nunderlying this discursive activity of mind, kept him company all the\nwhile--\u201cI have struggled and prayed; I have tried to believe and to\ntrust; I can do no more. If there be a God who is concerned in man,\nlet him now give evidence of His providence.\u201d\n\nWhen he reached the Manor, he was ushered into the reception-room,\nwhere he was not kept long waiting. Mrs. Haldane entered the\napartment, and received him with a chilling courtesy. She noticed\nthat, though he had advanced eagerly at her entrance, he had not\noffered her his hand; and now that she had bowed to him with a certain\nconstrained grace, he stood regarding her hesitatingly.\n\n\u201cI have come,\u201d he said at last, in a low, nervous voice, \u201cto throw\nmyself on your mercy, to beg your forgiveness, to ask you once more to\nrestore me your confidence and friendship.\u201d\n\n\u201cI freely forgive you, Mr. Santley,\u201d she replied at once. \u201cIt is\nbetter that what has taken place should be forgiven and forgotten\nas speedily as possible. But my confidence and friendship! How can I\ntrust you any more? And I did trust and esteem you so much. I regarded\nyou---- But I will not even reproach you with having destroyed my\nidealization of you.\u201d\n\n\u201cReproach me and censure me as you will,\u201d he cried earnestly; \u201cbut do\nnot cast me away from you, do not be heartlessly indifferent to me. It\nlies in your hands to make my life happy or miserable. It depends on\nyou whether I can live at all.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat cannot be,\u201d replied Mrs. Haldane, shaking her head gravely.\n\n\u201cIt is and must be,\u201d said the vicar. \u201cAll my future, both here and\nhereafter, hangs on your decision now. I have fought with myself, and\nprayed to God to be delivered from my bondage; but it is in vain. No\nanswer has been vouchsafed to my supplications; no grace, no strength\nhas been granted in my need. Had I prayed to the deaf impersonal power\nwhich your husband believes in, I could not have been more hopelessly\nunheard or unheeded. The conflict is over. I am the gladiator fallen\nin the arena, and it rests with you to give the signal of reprieve or\ndestruction.\u201d\n\n\u201cI do not understand you, Mr. Santley,\u201d she said, feeling alarmed and\nexcited. \u201cWhat do you ask? What would you have me do?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, what would I have you do!\u201d he exclaimed passionately; then,\nchecking himself abruptly, he continued eagerly, \u201cI would have you\nbe as you were before I offended you. I would have you forgive my\noffence.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have promised to forgive and forget it,\u201d said Mrs. Haldane.\n\n\u201cNo; do not forget it, but pardon it, and try to look upon it as more\nvenial than you now do. Oh, Ellen, had I not loved you beyond all that\na man values in this world, would it be possible to have so far fallen\nin your esteem?\u201d\n\nShe frowned, and was about to interrupt him; but he went on\nhurriedly--\u201cDo not be angry. I will not speak to you of love again.\nI will only answer your question. I would, as I have said, that you\nshould forgive my offence, and be the same to me as though it had\nnever happened. Not only my use in life, my happiness, my honour\ndepend on this, but life itself. I cannot exist without some share\nin your thoughts, in your interests, in your regard. Life would be\nintolerable if you were to be wholly taken away from me. Do I ask too\nmuch? Answer me quickly, for I am prepared for either alternative. You\nand God--if, indeed, there be above us a God who sees and cares--must\nnow decide my course.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou frighten and bewilder me with your passion. I do not know what\nto answer you. Indeed, I hardly know whether I understand you. I have\nforgiven you. I bear you no ill will. I hope, indeed, that you may\nbe happy, and that you may soon find some one who will be worthier of\nyour love than I could have been. I am both sorry and ashamed of what\nhas happened, and I will try to forget it, both for your sake and my\nown. Have I not said enough?\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd the future?\u201d he asked, with an anxious look.\n\n\u201c\u2018The future will be a continuation of the past, seeing that all is\nforgiven and forgotten.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd you will still allow me to speak to you, to see you? You will not\ntreat me with silence and indifference?\u201d\n\n\u201cI will be as I used to be,\u201d said Ellen, with a look of doubt and\nhesitation. \u201cAnd you will _trust_ me?\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you to be trusted, Mr. Santley?\u201d she asked in a low voice. \u201cYou\nknow how fully I trusted you before.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd you must trust me again if all is to be the same as it was. Is\nnot that our agreement?\u201d\n\n\u201cI will try to, but the result will entirely depend upon yourself.\u201d\n\n\u201cI cannot say how thankful and grateful I am to you,\u201d he said,\nextending his hand.\n\nShe took it, and he raised hers to his lips, though she coloured and\ntried to withdraw it.\n\n\u201cNay, it is but a token of my gratitude and submission. I am thankful\nto live, and you do not know how certainly you have enabled me to\nlive.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy husband is in the laboratory,\u201d said Mrs. Haldane, who felt uneasy,\nand wished to bring this interview to a close.\n\n\u201cShall we join him?\n\n\u201cCertainly, if you wish it.\u201d\n\nThey found Mr. Haldane busily engaged in writing, while the\nsinister-looking attendant, with the dark, startling eyes, was\nnoiselessly occupied in filling a number of flasks with some\nmysterious decoction intended for immediate experiment.\n\n\u201cEver busy!\u201d exclaimed the vicar.\n\n\u201cBusier than ever just now,\u201d replied Mr. Haldane. \u201cI am preparing a\npaper which I intend to read on Tuesday next before the scientific\ncongress at Paris.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you going to Paris?\u201d asked Mr. Santley, with surprise, and\naddressing the question rather to Mrs. Haldane than her husband.\n\n\u201cMr. Haldane is going, but I remain here.\u201d\n\nA look of relief passed over the vicar\u2019s face.\n\n\u201cAnd what is the subject of your paper, if curiosity be pardonable?\u201d\n he asked.\n\n\u201cOh, it is a chapter from the great _opus_ on morals. I call it \u2018The\nProblem of Suicide.\u2019 A singularly fascinating subject to one who has\npaid any attention to it, I assure you. Does it happen to have fallen\nin your line of study?\u201d\n\n\u201cI cannot say it has.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou would find some curious generalizations here, in that case,\u201d\n said Mr. Haldane, pointing to the sheets of paper on his desk.\n\u201cFor instance, I suppose you would be hardly prepared to grant that\nsuicide, which seems a barbarous and unenlightened act, is really an\neffect of civilization, or that an act which appears more than any\nother an evidence of individual spontaneity, is in fact the inevitable\nissue of universal and absolute social law.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am certainly not prepared to concede that.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; few persons unacquainted with the subject would be. Still, the\nfacts remain. The suicide who imagines he is rebelling against all\nlaw and asserting his individual independence, is but illustrating the\ncoercion of the physical and psychical dispensation. Why, you shall\nnot even choose your own weapon of destruction, or select the spot in\nwhich you shall die. Law will fix those apparently trivial details\nfor you. If your suicide is an Englishman, for example, he will prefer\nhanging to cutting and stabbing, cutting and stabbing to drowning,\ndrowning to poison, and poison to firearms. With English women the\norder of preference is modified. A third of the women, and hardly a\nseventh of the men, seek death by drowning; while a seventh of the\nwomen poison themselves, but only a fifteenth of the men. The ratios\nhold good from year to year--relatively at least--for suicide is\nlargely on the increase. You should look into the matter for yourself.\nIt is a most attractive social problem.\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps Mr. Santley would like to look at your paper?\u201d suggested Mrs.\nHaldane.\n\n\u201cYou shall be very welcome to see it when I return,\u201d said the\nphilosopher.\n\n\u201cThank you very much. I have no doubt it will be extremely\ninteresting. And when do you leave?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe day after to-morrow. I shall spend a day or two in London, and\npossibly a week or a fortnight in Paris. Indeed, I have some notion of\npaying a flying visit to Berlin.\u201d\n\nThat afternoon, as the vicar returned home, he paused by a pool in one\nof the fields that skirted the high-road, and flung his revolver into\nit.\n\n\u201cCan it be possible,\u201d he asked himself, \u201cthat man has no volition, no\nindependence of action; that his choice of life or death even is not\na choice, but a predetermined issue of mechanical forces?\u201d He watched\nthe ripples die away on the water, and then resumed his way.\n\n\u201cAre we mere automata, accomplishing not our own wills, but the secret\npurpose of a subtle agency, of whose control we are unconscious?\u201d\n\nGradually the problem which perplexed him gave place to another wave\nof thought. His step became firmer and more elastic, and his face\nbrightened.\n\nThe thought which effected this change in his demeanour was Mr.\nHaldane\u2019s departure. What might not happen in those few days of\nabsence? Was not Mr. Haldane also accomplishing an unknown,\ndestiny? Might not this journey be providential? Or say, rather an\nunanticipated road to the great end? Suppose Mr. Haldane should never\nreturn!\n\nThe possibilities involved in that reflection!\n\nThen he thought of Mrs. Haldane. For a week, perhaps for a fortnight,\nshe would be alone at the Manor. For a fortnight? Who could\nforetell--perhaps for ever!\n\n\nEND OF VOL. I.","title":"Foxglove Manor: A Novel, Volume 1 (of 3)","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":34065}