It was very pleasant, exceedingly pleasant – at any other time Edith would have enjoyed it hugely; but as the hands of the bronze clock on the chimneypiece travelled so quickly round, she began to grow uneasy, and to wonder at the protracted absence of her lover. Miss Santley was a very pleasant person indeed, and Edith was very fond of her; but it had been a stronger inducement than Miss Santley that had brought her to the Vicarage that afternoon. Santley must know she was in the house, thought Edith; it was strange he did not come.
Suddenly Miss Santley glanced at the clock. In a moment she was on her feet.
“My dear,” she exclaimed, “how the time has flown! Do you play again to-night?”
“Yes.”
The lady nodded.
“Well walk to church together, dear,” she said. “Amuse yourself by looking at the books, while I run away to get my bonnet and mantle on.”
Ere the lady had reached the door of the room, Edith spoke. Prolonged disappointment had given her courage.
“Mr. Santley is busy, I suppose?” she said.
“Mr. Santley – Charles? Oh, my dear, he’s not at home!”
“Not at home?”
“No. If he had been, do you suppose for a moment, my dear, he would have allowed you to be all this time in the house without coming out to say ‘How do you do’? If he had known you had been coming, of course he would have stayed in; but he didn’t know, so immediately after afternoon service he went to Foxglove Manor. He wanted to see Mrs. Haldane, and he said he should go straight from there to the church.”
Miss Santley was near the door. The moment she had finished speaking she passed out of the room, and left Edith alone.
It was not a pleasant task to her, this mentioning of Mrs. Haldane. She knew that people had already begun to speak somewhat unkindly of the relations between that lady and her brother. But since this was so, it was well that she should show to the world that she, his sister, thought nothing of it. Therefore she had made up her mind that, whenever it was necessary for her to mention that lady’s name, she would do so without reserve of any kind. It was the only way, she thought, to prevent such absurd rumours from taking root.
A very few minutes sufficed to make her toilet. At the end of that time she returned to the room where she had left Edith, to get her Prayer-book and the handkerchief which had fallen from her hand, and lay beside her chain.
“Ready, dear?” she asked brightly; then she paused, amazed.
There sat Edith, pale as a ghost, reclining in an easy-chair, with her head thrown back, and her forehead covered by a handkerchief soaked with eau-de-cologne.
“Why, my dear!” exclaimed Miss Santley. “Whatever is the matter? Has anything happened?”
“No, nothing,” said Edith, faintly. “I have got a very bad headache, that is all; and – and – I cannot go to church again to-day, Miss Santley.”
“Go to church,” echoed Miss Santley. “Why, my dearest girl, of course you cant go to church! I will send Jane with a message to Charles, and stay and take care of you.”
But this Edith would not allow. She pulled the handkerchief from her forehead, and declared her intention of going home.
Miss Santley kissed her kindly. At this exhibition of tenderness Edith fairly broke down. She threw her arms around the lady’s neck, and burst into tears.
“I – I am so sorry,” she said at last, when her sobs had somewhat subsided; “but I could not help it. I – I am such a coward when I am ill!”
Miss Santley said nothing; she knew she could do nothing. There was some mystery here which she could not fathom, so she yielded to the girl’s solicitations and allowed her to go home.
CHAPTER XXII. AT THE VICARAGE
One evening about the middle of the week, as the Rev. Mr. Santley sat alone in his study a card was brought to him, on which was printed —
Mr. Walter Hetherington.
The clergyman raised his brows as he read, and asked the maid, who waited respectfully at the door, if the gentleman had not called upon him before.
“Once before, sir!”
“Did he state his business?”
“He did not, sir; he only said he would not detain you long.”
“Well, ask the gentleman to be good enough to walk this way.”
The maid retired, and a moment afterwards Walter entered the room.
The two men bowed to each other. One glance had assured Santley that any attempt at a warmer greeting would be injudicious; the other might not respond, and it would never do for the vicar of the parish to be snubbed by an itinerant painter whom nobody knew – besides, under the circumstances, a bow was ample greeting. He infused into it as much politeness as possible, welcomed his young friend to the Vicarage, and, pointing to a chair which he had drawn forward, begged him to be seated. Decidedly the clergyman was the most self-possessed of the two. For Walter took his seat in nervous silence; while Santley, wondering greatly in his own mind what could possibly have procured him the honour of that visit, kept the scene from flagging by that wonderful gift of small talk with which he was possessed.
He was very pleased indeed to meet Mr. Hetherington. He had done him the honour to call upon him once before he thought – yes, he was sure of it; and he had also had the pleasure of meeting him once before, when he had not had the honour of his acquaintance. Was Mr. Hetherington thinking of making a long stay amongst them?
“Not very long,” said Walter.
“I suppose you have made some charming sketches?” continued the clergyman. “There are pretty little spots about the village, spots well worthy of a painters brush. I used to do a little in that way myself when I was a youngster at college; but the vicar of a parish has onerous duties. I suppose at the present moment I should hardly know how to handle a brush. Are you thinking of leaving us soon, Mr. Hetherington?”
“I am not quite sure!”
“Ah! well, if you stay and would like to make use of my library, I should feel greatly honoured. It is the only thing I have to offer you, I fear; but I shall be very pleased indeed to put it at your service. It contains a few books on your own art, which might interest you.”
“You are very kind, Mr. Santley.”
“Not at all, my dear sir; I am merely neighbourly. Life would be dreary indeed if one could not be neighbourly in a place like this!”
“Mr. Santley, I have come to you for your advice.”
The clergyman, nervously dreading what was to follow, looked at his visitor with a calm smile, and answered pleasantly enough.
“My advice? My dear sir, I place it freely at your service, and myself also if I can be of the slightest use to you.”
“You can be of very great use to me.”
The clergyman merely bowed this time and waited, so Walter continued —
“You know my cousin, Miss Edith Dove?”
As he spoke he fixed his eyes keenly upon the clergyman’s face, but the latter made no sign; he neither winced nor changed colour, but answered calmly enough.
“I have the pleasure of the lady’s acquaintance. She is one of the most esteemed members of my congregation.”
“It is about Miss Dove I wished to speak to you.”
Again the clergyman bowed; again he found it unnecessary to make a reply.
Walter, growing somewhat ill at ease, continued —
“I don’t mind confessing to you, Mr. Santley, that at one period of my career I hoped most earnestly, and indeed confidently believed, that at no very remote date I should have the happiness of making her my wife. I was sincerely attached to her; I believe she was attached to me. But recently all has changed. She is wasting her life; throwing aside all chance of happiness, through some mad infatuation about the Church.”
“Some mad infatuation about the Church!” returned the clergyman, methodically. “Really, my dear sir, I am afraid you forget you are speaking to a clergyman of the Church. As to Miss Dove, she is a lady whose conduct is without reproach; she is one of the Church’s staunchest supporters!”
“Then you approve her present mode of life; you uphold it? You will not advise her to shake her morbid fancies away? to accept an honest affection and a happy home?”
Santley seemed to reflect.
“As a clergyman of the Church, I should advise her the other way, I think. Surely the fulfilment of religious duties points to a more elevated mode of existence than mere marrying and giving in marriage. I am sorry for you, since I believe that any man possessed of that lady’s esteem might deem himself fortunate; still, I could not advise her to act against her conscience and the promptings of religion.”
“And me, what do you advise me to do?”
The clergyman shrugged his shoulders. “It seems to me that there is only one thing that you can do. If the lady finds your attentions disagreeable, surely the most honourable course for you to adopt would be to leave her – in peace.” Walter rose, and the clergyman breathed more freely, believing that the interview had come to a satisfactory end. Neither of them spoke for a minute or so, till the clergyman looked up, and said quietly —
“You have something more to say, Mr. Hetherington?”
“Yes,” 9 answered Walter; “I have something more to say.” Then, going a few steps nearer to the clergyman, he added, “You are a hypocrite, Mr. Santley!”
The clergyman’s face grew pale. He rose hastily from his seat; but before he could speak Walter continued, vehemently —
“Do you think I don’t know you? Do you think I haven’t discovered that it is you, and not the Church, who has taken my cousin from me? You talk to me of religion, of religious duties, and yet you know that you are playing the hypocrite to her, as you have done to me, and that you are breaking her heart.”
He paused, flushed, excited, and angry. The clergyman stood calm and very pale.
“You do well to seek this interview in my house, sir,” he said. “Now you have insulted me with impunity, perhaps you will take your leave.”
But Walter made no attempt to move.
“Before I go,” he said, “I wish to know what are your plans regarding my cousin?”
“And I should like to ask you, sir,” returned the clergyman, “what authority you have for interfering in my private affairs?”
“I have no authority; your private affairs are nothing to me. I speak in the interest of my cousin!”
“Really! I should fancy your interference would be hardly likely to do her much good.” #
“Mr. Santley, I shall ask you one more question. Do you, or do you not, mean to marry my cousin?”
“And if I refuse to answer?”
“I shall make it my duty, before tomorrow night, to expose you.”
“Really!” returned the clergyman, with an exasperating smile. “You will draw your cousin’s good name through the mire in order to throw a little mud at me. I should think, young man, you must be a treasure to your family. Good evening. I will ring for the servant to show you out.”
And he did ring – at the most opportune moment too; for Walter, staggered by that last thrust, perceived that his enemy was on the side of power. So, when in answer to her master’s summons the servant appeared, Walter followed her; he was afraid to utter another word, for Edith’s sake.
When he was gone, all Santley’s calmness deserted him, and he walked up and down the room in a fit of uncontrollable rage. When he had grown calmer, he sat down and wrote one of his neatly worded epistles to Edith, making an appointment for the following day.
He half believed that Walter had come to him, as Edith’s authorized messenger, to attempt to force upon him those bonds which he was so very reluctant to wear. The clergyman could not in any other way account for his knowledge of the relations existing between the two. It was well for Edith that at that moment she was not near her lover – well for her, also, that no meeting could take place between them until the following day.
The next day Santley was very much more composed, and when he walked towards the trysting-place none would have known, from his outward appearance, that anything was materially wrong. He had made the appointment in daylight this time; since embraces could be dispensed with, so also could darkness and night. There was really nothing in this meeting after all; nothing but what might have been witnessed by a dozen pair of eyes. Those who did see it would see only an event of ordinary everyday life.
Miss Edith Dove, walking leisurely towards the village, was overtaken by the clergyman, who paused to shake hands with her, and to walk with her a part of the way. Had any one looked closely at these two, he would have seen that the clergyman, though calm, was very pale; that Edith, pale too, had a weary, listless look about her face; that after she had shaken hands with her pastor, she quickly turned away her head, for her eyes grew dim with tears.
If Santley saw the tears he did not care to notice them. He had found, directly they met, that she was suffering from one of those deplorable fits of temper which had more than once caused trouble between them; but that could not be taken any notice of now. If she chose to wear herself to a shadow, it was her own affair; he had something more important on hand. The interview could not be a long one, therefore he must reach the heart of the matter at once.
So he began abruptly —
“Edith, this new course you have adopted is a dangerous one, and had better be abandoned without loss of time.”
The girl raised her eyes to his face, and asked wearily —
“What do you mean? What have I done?”
“I suppose you are responsible for your cousin’s visit to my house; you must have instigated it, if you did not actually advise him!”
Again she raised her troubled eyes to his face, and said sadly —
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Then I will tell you, Edith. Your cousin, a hot-headed, ill-mannered youth, has thought fit to take upon himself the part of protector, or guardian, of your happiness. In this capacity he paid me a domiciliary visit yesterday, and treated me to some most violent abuse. He threatened to make known to the public the relations between us. I advised him to think it over, for your sake!”
“My cousin – Walter Hetherington, do you mean?”
“Most certainly.”
“But how does he know? how has he learned?”
“From you, I suppose.”
“No; it is not from me,” returned Edith, whose listlessness was fast disappearing. “I have said nothing; I have never even mentioned your name to him. It must be known; it must be talked of in the village. Oh, Charles, spare me! Keep your promise to me, for God’s sake! Any open disgrace would be more than I could bear. I should die.”
The girl, overcome by her emotion, had forgotten for the moment that their present interview was a perfectly public one. The clergyman coldly reminded her of the fact. Then, after she had forced upon herself a composure which she was far from feeling, he continued – “You had better understand, Edith, once and for ever, that whatever my conduct may be, I do not choose to have it questioned by this exceedingly officious young man. A repetition of the scene of yesterday I will not bear. And as it is evident to me that my actions are under surveillance, I must refuse either to see or hear from you again, until that young man has removed himself from the village.”
“Charles, you surely don’t mean that?” exclaimed the girl.
But he certainly did mean it, and though she pleaded and argued, he remained firm. At last she resolved that she would speak to Walter, resent his interference, and, if possible, induce him to return home.
Then the two shook hands and parted.
That evening Walter dined at the-cottage. During the dinner Edith scarcely looked at him; while he himself was silent and distrait. But after dinner, when they had all retired to the drawing-room, when the old lady had settled down to her wool-work, and Walter had lit his cigar, Edith threw a light shawl over her head, and asked him if he would come with her into the garden.
Wondering very much at the request, Walter rose at once, and offered her his arm. She took it; but the moment they were alone she withdrew her hand and turned angrily upon him. Walter listened, and he found that he had some chance of being heard. He acknowledged that she had spoken the truth; he had interfered; he had deemed it quite right that he should do so for her sake.
“For my sake!” returned Edith. “It seems to me there is more of selfishness than benevolence in what you have done. What is it to you if I am engaged to Mr. Santley? and if we choose to keep our engagement a secret, what is that to you? I am my own mistress; I can act just as I think fit, without the fear of coercion from any one. You, at any rate, have no right to regulate my actions or to dictate them. I suppose you think I have no right to marry any one, simply because I refuse to be coerced into marrying you!”
It was a cruel thing to say; but Edith was simply dealing him, secondhand, some of the stabs which she herself had received from her beloved pastor in the morning. The stabs went deep into his heart, and the wounds remained for many a day. When Edith had uttered a few more truisms with the characteristic selfishness of love and hatred, Walter coldly suggested that their pleasant stroll in the garden might be brought to a termination.
They returned together to the house. As the old lady, beaming with delight at what she believed to be the sudden and happy reconciliation of the cousins, had prepared the tea, Walter pleased her by sitting down to take some before he said good night.
But the next day he returned to town.
CHAPTER XXIII. DR. DUPRÉ’S ELIXIR
George Haldane returned home in the best of spirits. His paper had been received with enthusiasm by the savants of France, and his life in Paris had been one pleasant succession of visits, learned conversaziones, and private entertainments. Thanks to his happy pre-occupation, he scarcely noticed that his wife’s manner was constrained, nervous, yet deeply solicitous; that she looked pale and worn, as if with constant watching; and that, in answer to his careless questioning as to affairs at home, she made only fragmentary replies.
On entering his dressing-room to change his apparel, he found Baptisto, who was quietly undoing his portmanteau and selecting the necessary things with a calm air, as if his services had never been interrupted.
“So, my Baptisto,” he said, clapping that worthy on the shoulder, “you are not dead or buried, I see? Ah, you may smile, but I am quite aware of the trick you played me. Well, you have been the loser. You would have had a pleasant time of it in Paris, the best of entertainment, and nothing whatever to do.”
“I am glad you have returned, senor,” replied Baptisto, with his customary solemnity.
“I hope you have given satisfaction to your mistress during my absence?”
“I hope so, senor.”
“Humph! we shall see what report she has to make concerning you, and if that is favourable, I may forgive your freak of laziness.”
“I have not been lazy, senor,” said Baptisto, quietly preparing the toilette.
“Indeed! Pray, how have you been employing yourself?”
Baptisto did not reply, but smiled again.
“How is your inamerata and her family? I saw the little woman curtsying as I passed through the lodge-gates.”
Baptisto shook his head solemnly.
“Ah, senor,” he said, “you are mistaken. The woman of the lodge is a stupid person; and for the rest, I put no faith in women. Cuerpo di Baccho, no! They smile upon us when we are near; but no sooner do we turn our backs, than they smile upon some other man.”
“Pretty philosophy,” returned Haldane, with a laugh. “Why, you are a downright misogynist, my Baptisto. But I don’t believe one word you say, for all that. Men who talk like you are generally very easy conquests, and I would bet twenty to one on the little widow still.”
“Ah, senor, if all women were like your signora, it would be different. She is so good, so pure, so faithful at her devotions. It is a great thing to have religion.”
As Baptisto spoke his back was turned to his master, so that the extraordinary expression of his face was unnoticed, and there was no indication in his tone that he spoke satirically. Haldane shrugged his shoulders and said nothing, not caring to discuss his wife’s virtues with a servant, however familiar. Presently he went downstairs to dinner. All that evening he was very affectionate and merry, talking volubly of his adventures in Paris, of his scientific acquaintances, and of such new discoveries as they had brought under his notice. In the course of his happy chat he spoke frequently of a new acquaintance, one Dr. Dupré, whom he had met in the French capital. “The French, however far behind the Germans in speculative affairs,” he observed, “are far their superiors, and ours, in physiology. Take this Dupré, for example. He is a wonderful fellow! His dissections and vivisections’ have brought him to such a point of mastery that he is almost certain that he has discovered the problem poor Lewes broke his heart over – how and by what mechanism we can’t think. I don’t quite believe he has succeeded in that great discovery, but some of his minor discoveries are extraordinary. Did you read the account in the papers of his elixir of death?”
Ellen shook her head. The very name seemed horrible.
“His elixir of death?” she repeated.
“Yes. A chemical preparation, the fundamental principle of which is morphine. By its agency he can so produce in a living organism the ordinary phenomena of death, that even rigor mortis is simulated. I saw the experiment tried on two rabbits, a Newfoundland dog, and, to crown all, on the human subject. They were all, to every appearance, dead; the rabbits for twenty-four hours, the dog for half a day, and the woman for an hour and a half.”
“Horrible!” exclaimed Ellen, with a shudder. “Do you actually mean he experimented on a living woman?”
“Yes; on a strapping wench, the daughter of his housekeeper; and a very fine thing she made of it. We subscribed together, and presented her with a purse of a thousand francs.”
“I think such things are wicked,” cried Ellen, with some warmth. “Mere mortals have no right to play, in that way, with the mystery of life and death.”
“My dear Nell,” cried Haldane, laughing, “it is in the interests of science!”
“But I am sure it is not right. Life is given and taken by God alone.”
“Your argument, if accepted, would make all mankind accept the religion of the Peculiar People, who will cure no diseases by human intervention. As to this business of suspended animation, it is merely a part of our discoveries in anodynes. Dupré’s experiment, I know, is perfectly safe.”
“But that is not the question.”
“How so, my dear?”
“What I mean is, that death is too solemn and awful a thing to imitate as you describe. Such experiments are simply blasphemous, in my opinion.”
“Come, come,” cried the philosopher. “There is no blasphemy where there is no irreverence. According to your religious people, your priests of the churches, there was blasphemy in circumnavigating the globe; in discovering the circulation of the blood; in ascertaining the age of the earth; and, still later, in using chloroform to lessen the pangs of parturition.”
“But what purpose can be served by such experiments as that?”
“A good many,” was the reply. “For example, it may help us to the discovery of the nature of life itself, which has puzzled everybody, from Parmenides down to Haeckel. If we can by a simple anodyne suspend the vital mechanism for a period, and then by a vegetable antidote restore it again to action, the resurrection of Lazarus will cease to be a miracle, and the pretensions of Christianity – ”
Ellen rose impatiently, with an expression of sincere pain.
“My dear Nell, what is the matter?” cried her husband.
“I cannot bear to hear you discuss such a thing. Oh, George, if you would leave such wicked speculations alone, and try to believe in the mystery and sovereignty of God!”
“You mean, burn my books, and go to hear your seraphic friend every Sunday?”
Had he not touched, unconsciously, on another painful chord? Why, otherwise, did his wife flush scarlet and partially avert her face? Conquering herself with an effort, she went over to him, and bending over him, looked fondly into his face.
“You are so much cleverer than I, so much wiser, and do you think I am not proud of your wisdom? But, all the same, dear, I wish you did not think as you do. When life becomes a mere experiment, a mere thing of mechanism, what will be left? If we knew everything, even what we are, and why we exist, the world would be a tomb – with no place in it for the Living God.”
Touched by her manner, Haldane drew her down by his side and kissed her; then, with more earnestness than he had yet exhibited, he answered her, holding her hand in his own and pressing it softly.
“My dear Nell, do me the justice to believe that I am not quite a materialist; simple agnosticism is the very converse of materialism. There is not living a scientific philosopher of any eminence who does not, in his calculations, postulate a mystery which can never be solved by the finest intellect. Even if we had fully completed, with the poet – =
The new creed of science, which showeth to man
How he darkly began,
How he grew from a cell to a soul, without plan;
How he breaks like a wave of the ocean, and goes
To eternal repose —
A tone that must fade, tho’ the great Music grows! ‘=
even then, we should know nothing of the First Cause. That must for ever remain inscrutable.”
“But how horrible it would be to believe in annihilation? Can you believe in it?”
“Certainly not,” replied the philosopher.
Ellens face brightened.
“Oh, I am so glad to hear you say that!”
“My dear Nell, annihilation is absurd.”
“Now, isn’t it?” she cried triumphantly.
“It is refuted, on the face of it, by the doctrine of the conservation of force. Life is eternal, in one shape or another; no force can be destroyed, be sure of that!”
“I wish Mr. Santley could hear you! He wouldn’t call you an atheist then!”
Haldane’s face darkened angrily.
“What? Does the man actually – ”
“Don’t misunderstand,” cried Ellen, flushing scarlet. “I do not mean that he really calls you an atheist, but he is so sorry, so deeply sorry, that you do not believe. He does not know you, dear, and takes all my bear’s satirical growling for solemn earnest. Now, when I tell him – ”
“You will tell him nothing,” exclaimed Haldane, with sudden sternness. “I will have no priest coming between my wife and me!”
“Mr. Santley would never do that,” she returned, now trembling violently.
“Mr. Santley is like all his tribe, I suppose – a meddler and a mischief-maker. That is the worst of other-worldliness; it gives these traders in the Godhead, these peddlers who would give us in exchange for belief in their superstitions a bonus in paradise, an excuse for making this world unbearable. Well, my atheism, if you choose to call it so, against his theism. Mine at least keeps me a man among men, while his keeps him a twaddler among women.”
Haldane spoke with heat, for the word “atheist” had somehow stung him to the quick. This man, who rejected all outward forms of belief, and whose conversation was habitually ironical, was in his inmost nature deeply and sincerely religious; humbly reverent before the forces of nature; spiritually conscious of that Power beyond ourselves which makes for righteousness. True, he rejected the ordinary forms of theism; but he had, on the other hand, a deep though dumb reverence for the character of Christ, and he had no sympathy with such out-and-out materialists as Haeckel and hoc genus omne. For the rest, he was liberal-minded, and had no desire to interfere with his wife’s convictions; could smile a little at her simplicity, and would see no harm in her clerical predispositions, so long as the clergyman didn’t encroach too far on the domain of married life and domestic privacy.
His indignation did not last. Seeing his wife greatly agitated, and fearing that he had caused her pain, he drew her forehead down and kissed it; then, patting her cheek, he said —
“Forgive me, Nell. I did not mean to scold; but one does not like hard names. When any one calls me ‘atheist,’ I am like the old woman whom Cobbett called a ‘parallelogram;’ it is not the significance of the epithet, but its opprobrium, that rouses me. Besides, I do not like any man to abuse me – to my own wife.”
“No one does that,” she cried. “You know I would not listen.”
“I hope not, my dear.” He added after a little, looking at her thoughtfully and sadly, “Man and wife have fallen asunder before now, on this very question of religion. Well, rather than that should happen, I will let you convert me. Will that satisfy you?”
“I shall never be quite satisfied till I know that you believe as I do.”
“What is that, pray?”
“That there is a just God, who made and cherishes us; and that, through the blood of His Son we shall live again although we die!”
“Well, it is a beautiful creed, my dear.”
“And true?”
“Why not? I will go with you thus far. I believe that, if there is a God, He is just, and that we shall certainly live again, if it is for our good.”
The emphasis with which he spoke the last words attracted her attention.
“For our good?” she queried.
“I am quoting the saddest words ever written, by the saddest and best man I ever knew. 1 He, too, believed that a God might spare us, and give us eternal life, if – mark the proviso – eternal life were indeed for our good. But suppose the contrary – suppose God knew better, and that it would be an evil and unhappy gift? Alas! who knows?”
He rose from his chair, still encircling his wife’s waist, and moved towards the door.
“Come to the drawing-room,” he cried gaily. “After so much offhand theology, a little music will be delightful. Ah, Nell, one breath of Beethoven is worth all the prosings of your parsons. Play to me, and, while the music lasts, I will believe what you will.”