Foxglove Manor (Vol. 1-3). Robert Williams Buchanan
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Название: Foxglove Manor (Vol. 1-3)
Автор: Robert Williams Buchanan
Издательство: Bookwire
Жанр: Языкознание
isbn: 4064066399702
isbn:
His assurances on the previous evening had not tranquillized her, and she had still a terrible misgiving that a chasm was widening between them.
The vicar was the first to speak.
“I am a little later than I expected,” he said, as he held out his hand to her.
“It does not signify now. I was only afraid that you might be so late I should have to go home without seeing you.”
He made no reply, and they walked on side by side in silence for a few seconds. At last she stopped abruptly and looked at him.
“Charles,” she said, “you know what you said to me last night?”
“Yes.”
“Was it true?”
“Why should you ask such a question? Why should you doubt its truth?”
“I try not to doubt it, but I cannot help it. Oh, tell me again that you do not hate and contemn me! Tell me you still love me.”
“My dear Edith,” replied the vicar, laying his hand on her arm, “you are not well. You have been overtaxing your strength and exciting yourself.”
Edith did not answer, but the tears rose to her eyes and began to run down her cheeks. She did not sob or make any sound of weeping, but her hand was pressed against her throat.
“Come, don’t cry like that; you know I cannot bear to see you cry.”
He stopped as he spoke, and took her hand in his. They stood still a little while, and she at length was able to speak.
“Do you remember,” she asked in a low, broken voice, “that I once told you you were my conscience?”
He regarded her uneasily before he replied.
“Yes; you once said that, I know. But why return to that now?”
“And have you not been?”
He was silent.
“Your word,” she continued, “has been my law; what you have said I have believed. Have I done wrong?”
“Why are you letting these things trouble you now?” he asked impatiently.
“Because I know that when a woman gives herself wholly to the man she loves, it is common for her to lose him, and I have begun to feel that I am losing you.”
“I do not think I have given you any reason to feel that.”
She did not speak again immediately, but stood with her innocent blue eyes raised beseechingly to his face. Suddenly she took hold of his hands, and said—
“You told me that in the eyes of God we were man and wife, that no marriage ceremony could ever join us together more truly, that marriage really consisted in the union of heart and soul, not in the words of any priest—did you not? Was that true? Am I still your little wife?”
He hesitated. The blood had vanished from his cheek, leaving it haggard and pale; she felt his hands trembling in hers. Then, with a sudden impulse, he took her face between his hands and drew her towards him, as he answered—
“You are, darling. I will not do you any wrong.”
CHAPTER VIII. A SICK-CALL.
Mr. Santley’s reply was as sincere at the moment it was spoken as it was impulsive. The saner and better part of him rose in sudden sympathy towards this young, confiding girl who had laid her whole being in his hands, to be his treasure or his plaything. He resolved to be faithful to the solemn pledge he had given her, and to cast from him for ever all thought of Mrs. Haldane, and all memory of that passionate episode of the past. He drew Edith’s hand under his arm and held it there. That warm little bit of responsive flesh and blood had still, he felt, a power to thrill through his nature. He bent down and kissed it. For some time their conversation was embarrassed, but gradually all sense of doubt and estrangement vanished, and he was telling her about his visit to the Manor. A pressure was laid upon him to make her such amends as he was able for his coldness during the past week, and he determined to break the spell which Mrs. Haldane’s beauty threw over him by revealing their old friendship to Edith. It was not wise, but under the stress of remorse and a reviving passion men seldom act wisely. Except in the case of a jealous disposition, a woman is always pleased to hear of her lover’s old vaguely cherished love affairs, when there is no possibility of their ever coming to life again. She knows instinctively, even when she is not told so adoringly, that she supersedes all her predecessors and combines all their virtues and charms. He loved this one for her beauty and sweetness, that one for her clear bright intelligence; each in a different way; but her he loves in both the old ways, and in a new way also which she alone could inspire.
“Mrs. Haldane was an old pupil of mine—indeed, a favourite pupil—many years ago; so, naturally, I am much interested in her,” said the vicar in a tentative manner.
The words were a revelation to Edith; they explained to her all her uneasiness and all his change of manner.
“And you find that you still love her a little?” Edith ventured to say in a sad, faltering tone.
“I never said I loved her, my dear,” replied the vicar, with a forced laugh.
“But you did, did you not? She was your favourite pupil.”
How uncomfortably keen-sighted this young person seemed to be, in spite of her soft, endearing ways!
“Would you be a little jealous if I said I did?” he asked, regarding her with a scrutinizing look.
“Jealous! Oh no. Why should I? Is she not married? And am I not really and truly your little wife?”
He pressed her hand gently for answer.
“And when you saw her again last Sunday, and saw how beautiful she was,” Edith continued, “you felt sorry that you had lost her—just a little regretful, did you not?”
The vicar hesitated, and then did the most foolish thing a man can do in such circumstances—confessed the truth.
“You will not be vexed, darling, if I say that I did feel regret?”
“You loved her very much?”
“She was my first love.” replied the vicar. “But you must remember it was years ago. Long before I knew you; when I was quite a young man.”
“And was she very fond of you?” Edith went on quietly.
“I used to think she was.”
“But she was not true to you?”
“I do not blame her. I do not think it was her fault. Her people were wealthy, and I was poor, a poor teacher.”
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