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Full text of "Foxglove Manor, a novel"

III. 



NEW THREE-VOLUME NOVELS 
AT ALL LIBRARIES. 

PRINCESS NAPRAXINE. By OUIDA. 
DOROTHY FORSTER. By WALTER BESANT. 
A DRAWN GAME. By BASIL. 
ST. MUNGO'S CITY. By SARAH TYTLER. 

HEART SALVAGE BY SEA AND LAND. 
By MRS. COOPER. 

LONDON: CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY. 



FOXGLOVE MANOR 




FOXGLOVE MANOR 



BY 

ROBERT BUCHANAN 

AUTHOR OF 

'GOD AND THE MAN," "THE SHADOW OF THE SWORD," 
" THB NEW ABELARD," ETC. 




\- 



JN THREE VOLUMES 
VOL. III. 



Hontron 

CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY 
1884 

[All rights reserved} 



CONTENTS OF VOL. III. 



CHAPTER PAGE 

XXVIII. A MONKISH TALE (FROM THE 

NOTE-BOOK) ... i 

XXIX. HUSH-MONEY ... ... 35 

XXX. " AND LO ! WITHIN HER, SOME- 
THING LEAPT ! " . . . ... 51 

XXXI. A LAST APPEAL ... 61 
XXXII. "FLIEH'! AUF' ! HINAUS ! IN'S 

WEITE LAND !" ... 79 

XXXIII. THE NOTE-BOOK AGAIN ... 96 

XXXIV. BAITING A MOUSE-TRAP (FROM 

THE NOTE-BOOK) ... 126 

XXXV. THE ASSIGNATION ... 149 

XXXVI. A FUNERAL PEAL ... ... 170 

XXXVII. THE DEATH-BED ... 179 

XXXVIII. TORTURE AND CONFESSION 196 

XXXIX. GETHSEMANE ... ... 217 

XL. THREE LETTERS ... ... 241 



FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

A MONKISH TALE (FROM THE NOTE-BOOK). 

Sunday, Sept. 19. My wife has gone to 
church. 

I can hear the bells ringing in the 
distance as I write. . . . Now they 
cease, and at this very moment the. 
clergyman, " snowy-banded, delicate- 
handed," is ascending the pulpit stairs, 
amid the reverent hush of his congre- 
gation. 

Though several times of late she has 
suggested that a little church-going 

VOL. 111. B 



FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

would do me good, Ellen did not ask 
me to accompany her on this occasion ; 
indeed, I thought at first that she was 
going to stay at home herself. At 
breakfast she was irritable and absent- 
minded, and she did not dress or order 
the carriage until the last moment. 
There was evidently a hard struggle in 
her mind whether she should go to 
church or not. Ultimately, she decided 
to go. 

Out of this and other unpleasant indi- 
cations, I have made a discovery. My 
wife, despite her purity, despite her lofty 
sense of honour, is jealous of the clergy- 
man. 

The day after my fishing expedition, I 
quietly told her what I had seen in the 
woodland. It was not without due de- 
liberation that I determined to do so. 
One portion of the truth, however, I 



A MONKISH TALE. 3 

carefully concealed : namely, the refer- 
ences made by the lovers to herself. 
For the same reason, I showed no sign 
of personal suspicion, but treated the 
affair lightly, as a thing of indifference. 

I began the conversation in this way, 
while beating the shell of my second egg 
at breakfast 

" By the way, my dear Nell, I have 
made a discovery." 

She looked up and smiled unsuspi- 
ciously. " Something terrible, I sup- 
pose ; like Dr. Dupre's elixir ? " 

" Oh dear no, nothing nearly so scien- 
tific ; a mere social discovery, my dear. 
I have found out that I was right ; that 
if your pet parson is not married, he 
ought to be." 

I saw her change colour ; but, bending 
her head over her teacup, she forced a 
laugh. 



4 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

11 What nonsense you're talking ! " 
" Don't call it nonsense till you hear 
my story. It will interest you, being 
quite piscatorial and idyllic. Conceive 
to yourself, first, the primaeval woodland ; 
then two figures, a nymph in a frock and 
a satyr in a clerical coat. The nymph, 
your friend Miss Dove ; the satyr, your 
other friend, Mr. Santley. She was 
crying ; he consoling. I heard their 
conversation ; I saw them quarrel, make 
it up, embrace, kiss, and disappear. I 
think you will agree with me that so 

pretty a pastoral should have, in a moral 

country, but one sequel marriage." 
How white and strange she seemed ! 

How nervously she fought with her 

agitation ! 

" I don't believe a word of what you 

say ! " she cried. " You saw all this, 

but how ? " 



A MONKISH TALE. 5 

I told her how, and she uttered a cry 
of virtuous indignation. 

" It is shameful ! " she exclaimed. 
" I will never speak to him again 
never ! " 

"On the contrary, I think you should 
speak to him, and, like a true match- 
maker, produce the denouement. You 
need not tell him that I played Peeping 
Tom ; but, without doing so, you can 
act on the information I have given 
you. After all, if he really loves the 
girl " 

" But he does not love her ! " 

She paused, trembling and flushing, 
conscious of her blunder. 

" Then is he a greater scoundrel than 
even I suspected ! " 

4< There must be some mistake. I 
am sure Mr. Santley would do nothing 
dishonourable. As to marrying, his 



FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

ideas are those of the High Church. 
He does not think that a priest has any 
right to marry." 

I looked at her in amazement. After 
what I had told her, could she possibly 
be attempting to justify him ? If so, the 
case was worse than I had foreseen, 
and her moral sense had already been 
effectually poisoned. She continued 
rapidly and eagerly, as if contending 
in argument with her own thoughts. 

" A clergyman's position is very diffi- 
cult. If he is unmarried, as a true priest 
should be, he is persecuted by all the 
marriageable girls of his parish. His 
slightest attentions are misconstrued, his 
most innocent acts exaggerated ; and 
if he shows a friendly interest in any 
young person, he is sure to be misunder- 
stood. I have no doubt, after all, that 
what you saw could be easily explained ; 



A MONKISH 7 ALE. 7 

and that, in any case, Miss Dove is the 
person really to blame." 

I was right, then : justification, and 
jealousy. 

" You forget," I answered quickly, 
" that I heard the whole conversation. 
Besides, though the language of words 
may be distorted, that of kisses and 
embraces is unmistakable." 

"He did not kiss her; he did not 
embrace her ! I will never believe it." 

" Then, you simply assume that I am 
stating an untruth ? " 

" I know how glad you are," she cried 
passionately, " to put this slur upon 
him." 

With some difficulty I mastered my 
indignation. Sick of the discussion, I 
rose and prepared to leave the room ; 
but before leaving I spoke, with cold 
decision, to the following effect : 



FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

" I have told you precisely what I 
saw ; it is for you to impeach my 
motives, if you please, and to think, in 
your infatuation, that I dislike Mr. 
Santley because of the cloth he wears. 
If you doubt me, question the girl * you 
can possibly get the truth from her. In 
any case, remember that, from this 
moment, I forbid you to entertain that 
man in my house." 

So I left her, leaving my words to 
work. 

The next day, i.e. yesterday, Santley 
called. She did not see him, but sent 
out a message that she was engaged. I 
saw him creeping, pale and crestfallen, 
past my laboratory door. 

Since the conversation recorded above, 
Ellen and I have not alluded to the 
subject ; indeed, we have seen little of 
each other, and spoken still less. Pos- 



A MONKISH TALE. 9 

sibly our temporary estrangement might 
account for the fixed pallor, the cold 
look of sorrow and reproach, on my 
wife's face ; but I am inclined to fear 
otherwise. At all events, the thing had 
gone so far, and I knew so much, that 
the overtures to reconciliation could not 
come from me. I had to conquer my 
struggling tenderness, and watch. 

The great struggle came this morning. 
I observed it with sickening suspense. 
Had honest indignation conquered, had 
Ellen held to her first decision of not 
returning into that man's church, I think 
I should have taken her into my arms 
and begged her pardon for suspecting 
her. But no ! she has gone ; not, I am 
sure, to pray. Surely I am a model 
husband, to sit so tamely here ! 

Sunday Evening. She drove home 
immediately after morning service, and 



10 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

I saw by the expression of her face that 
she was greatly agitated. We lunched 
in silence, and afterwards she took a 
volume of sermons and sat reading on 
the terrace. Later on in the afternoon, 
while I sat writing alone, she came in 
behind me, and before I could speak, 
put her arms around my neck and 
kissed me. 

" Forgive me," she cried, with her 
beautiful eyes full of tears. " Oh, 
George, I am so unhappy ! I cannot 
bear to quarrel." 

And she knelt by my side, looking 
pitifully up into my face. 

I returned her kiss, and for the time 
being, in her soft embrace, forgot my 
suspicions. It was a happy hour ! 
Neither of us spoke of the subject of 
our disagreement. 

Tuesday. After a temporary calm, 



A MONKISH TALE. I I 

the storm has again broken, and the 
weather is still charged with thunder. 
Let me try to record calmly what has 
taken place. 

This afternoon, as I sat at work, 
Baptisto entered quietly. 

" I think you are wanted, sefior ; there 
is some one here." 

" What do you mean ? Who is it ? " 

<( The clergyman, senor. He is with 
my lady." 

I started angrily ; then, conquering 
myself, I demanded 

" Did they send you for me ? " 

" No, senor," replied Baptisto, with 
his mysterious look; " but I thought you 
would like to know." 

I could have struck the fellow, for I 
saw that he had been playing the spy. 
Nevertheless, I remembered that I had 
forbidden Ellen to entertain Santley 



12 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

again at the Manor, and I felt my in- 
dignation rapidly rising at the thought 
of her disobedience. Angry and humi- 
liated, I rose to my feet. 

" Where are they ? " I asked. 

"In the drawing-room, senor." 

I at once went thither, uncertain what 
to say or do ; for I was determined, if 
possible, not to make a scene. Now, 
the great drawing-rooms of the Manor 
house consist of two old-fashioned apart - 
ments, communicating with a curtained 
archway, where there was once a folding- 
door. The inner room opens on a lobby 
communicating with the house ; the 
outer opens on the terrace. I approached 
from within, and finding the door open, 
entered softly. No one was visible; but 
I heard voices whispering in the outer 
room. 

After a moment's hesitation, I sat 



A MONKISH TALE. 13 

down in an armchair, and took up a 
book from the table. My back was to 
the curtained archway, and facing me 
was a large mirror, in which the arch- 
way and the dimly lighted, rose-coloured 
chamber beyond were clearly reflected. 
The whispering continued. 
I could bear the suspense no longer, 
and was about to rise and make my 
presence known, when the voices were 
raised, and I heard the clergyman 
exclaim 

" Ellen, for God's sake ! I can explain 
everything ! " 

Ellen ! My satyr was familiar. I 
crouched in my armchair, listening, as 
my wife replied 

" Why should you explain to me ? 
I have no wish to listen, Mr. Santley. 
Only I am shocked and indignant at 
what I have heard." 



H FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

" But there is not one word of truth 
in it. Who is your informant ? I 
demand to know his name." 

I strained my ears in suspense, won- 
dering how she would reply, for I already 
guessed the bearings of the conversa- 
tion. To my surprise, she replied 
parabolically 

" It is the common talk of the place." 
" Then it is a simple scandal ! " 
"You are not engaged to Miss Dove?" 
" Certainly not. She herself can tell 
you that there is nothing of the kind 
between us. I will admit freely that 
she has a great esteem for me that, in 
short, she is attached to me ; and that 
possibly, if I desired it, she would marry 
me." 

There was a silence. Then I heard 
Ellen say, quietly and firmly 

" Will you answer me a question ? " 



A MONKISH TALE. 15 

"Certainly." 

" Did you meet Miss Dove alone, last 
Thursday ? " 

I felt that her eyes were fixed upon 
his face as she put the question, and I 
guessed how it startled and amazed him ; 
but he was unabashed, and replied 
instantly 

" Where ? " 

She waited a moment, like one pausing 
to give the coup de grace, before she said 

" Close to the river-side, among Lord 
's plantations." 

Greatly to my astonishment, for I 
naturally expected a denial, the answer 
came at once, in a clear, decided voice. 

" Yes, I did meet her." 

I could imagine, though I could not 
see, my wife's start of virtuous indig- 
nation. Almost instantly, I saw her 
image in the mirror before me, as she 



1 6 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

rapidly crossed the room beyond ; then 
he followed, black-suited, like the devil. 
In the dim distance of the mirror, I now 
saw their two figures reflected, floating 
faintly in the rose-coloured light beyond 
the curtains. Their backs were turned 
to me, their faces were looking out upon 
the terrace. 

" I have nothing to conceal," he con- 
tinued passionately. " Some enemy has 
been spying upon me ; but I repeat, I 
have nothing to conceal. Only, I wished 
to spare Miss Dove. Now that you 
have made reserve impossible, I will 
admit, frankly, that she has misconstrued 
certain harmless attentions, and that, on 
the day you mention, she came upon me 
by accident, and reproached me for my 
coldness, my want of sympathy. She 
even went further, and asked me to 
marry her. I tell you this in sacred 



A MONKISH TALE. I? 

confidence, for I have no right to inform 
others of the young lady's indiscretion." 

" Was that all that passed ? " 

" All, I assure you." 

Ellen gave a peculiar laugh, the sound 
of which I did not like at all. There is 
nothing more significant than a woman's 
light laugh nothing, sometimes, more 
horrible. 

" She was reproachful, and you con- 
soled her ? " 

" Consoled her ?" 

" As a true lover should, with kisses 
and embraces ? You see, I know every- 
thing ! " 

" It is a calumny," cried the clergy- 
man, with seeming indignation. " True, 
I was gentle with her, for I felt very 
sorry. I reasoned and remonstrated 
with the foolish child : after all, she is a 
child only. Oh, Ellen, how could you 

VOL. in. c 



1 8 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

listen to such an accusation ? You who 
know that there is but one woman in the 
world who has my love, my life's devo- 
tion, and that you are that woman." 

Did my eyes deceive me, or had he 
stretched out an arm to embrace her ? 
No, I was right ! 

" Take away your arm ! " she cried. 
" I will not suffer it ! " 

She did suffer it, notwithstanding. 

"Ellen! dearest Ellen!" 

He drew her towards him, and I 
thought she was going to yield to his 
embrace ; but she shook herself free, and 
in a moment, before he knew her 
purpose, had opened the window and 
glided out upon the terrace. He followed 
her with a cry, and so my mirror was 
empty. I rose to my feet, sick and 
dazed with what I had seen, and pre- 
pared to follow. 



A MONKISH TALE. 1 9 

What should I do ? Should I at once 
avow my knowledge of what had taken 
place, and seize my satyr by the throat ; 
or, smiting him in the face, fling him from 
my door ? Should I stand by tamely, 
and see my hearth violated, my wife 
tempted, by a common snake of the 
parish ? If I had been less angry with 
my wife herself, I am sure I should have 
taken the violent course. But I saw 
now, to my horror, that she was neither 
adamantine nor marble. She had 
allowed him to know his evil power 
upon her, and to see that the knowledge 
of his power over another woman, so far 
from shocking and repulsing her, had in- 
creased the fascination. If I denounced 
him openly, it would be to admit his 
rivalry, and, by inference, to complete 
her degradation. 

Fortunately, I have been accustomed, 



20 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

from youth upward, to control my 
strongest feelings, whether of tenderness 
or anger ; and though I am capable 
enough of strong passion, I have 
generally the power to disguise it. In 
the present emergency, I found my habit 
of self-restraint stand me in good stead. 
I advanced into the outer room. By 
the time I had reached it, I was calm 
and cool to all outward appearances. 

Quite quietly, I approached the 
window, and gazed out upon the terrace. 

There they stood, he talking eagerly, 
she with face averted from him, and look- 
ing my way. She saw me in a moment, 
and started in agitation. I nodded 
grimly, and opening the folding windows, 
looked out. Then, all at once, I drew 
back apologetically. 

" Ah, there you are ! " I said to my 
wife. " I was looking for you." 



A MONKISH TALE. 21 

She stepped over to the window, look- 
ing strangely pale and scared. I had not 
even looked at, much less addressed, her 
companion ; but he approached, with a 
ghastly smile. 

" I'm afraid I interrupt you," I con- 
tinued. " Some religious business, I 
suppose ? Shall I retire till it is settled?" 

He looked at me doubtfully; but Ellen 
immediately replied 

" Do not go away. Mr. Santley is 
just leaving." 

Still preserving my sang froid, I sat 
down in one of the garden seats on the 
terrace, and opened the book which I 
had lifted at random from the drawing- 
room table. Curiously enough, it was a 
work which is rather a favourite of mine, 
one of Sebastiano's "Tales in Verse." 
I knew the thing, particularly the 
passage on which the page had opened, 



FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

and which, strange to say, had a certain 
reference to the present situation. 

" Pray proceed with your talk," I said, 

" I have something here to amuse me, 

/ 
till you have done." 

So I sat reading, or pretending to 
read. I did not even glance up, but I 
felt that they were looking uneasily at 
one another. There was a long pause. 
At last I lifted my eyes. 

"I'm sure I'm in the way," I said ; 
and rose as if to go. 

" No, no ! " cried Ellen, more and 
more uneasy at my manner, which I'm 
afraid was ominous. "We were only 
discussing some foolish village matters, 
on which Mr. Santley wished to have 
my advice." 

" Very well," I replied. Then, turning 
to Santley, I inquired quietly, " Do you 
read Spanish ? " 



A MONKISH TALE. 2 3 

He shook his head. 

" That's a pity," I continued. " Other- 
wise, you might have been much amused 
by this little work, written by a priest 
like yourself, though not quite of your 
persuasion." 

" Is it a tale ? " asked Ellen, bending 
over me. 

" Yes ; one of old Sebastiano's ' Tales 
in Verse.' Its author, I may tell you, 
was a Castilian monk, who abandoned 
the Church for the heretical pursuit of 
story-writing, and took ' Sebastiano ' as 
a pseudonym. The story I am reading 
here is considered, by many, his master- 
piece. The verse is assonantic through- 
out, the subject 

Here my satyr could not forbear a 
gesture of impatience and irritation. 

" I'm afraid I bore you, sir," I said, 
smiling. " Your tastes are not literary, 
I fear ? " 



24 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

" I seldom read fiction," he answered. 
" I consider it too trivial, and a waste of 
time." 

" Do you really think so ? I grant 
you, if the work is not of a truly moral 
nature, like the present. As I was going 
to tell you, the subject of this story, or 
tragedy in narrative, is edifying in the 
extreme. There was once in Castile a 
parish priest, an exceedingly handsome 
fellow, who, in a moment of impulse, fell 
deeply in love with a Spanish lady." 

There was no need to look up now. 
I felt that they were both fascinated, not 
knowing what was to come. Ellen's 
hand was on my chair, which vibrated 
with the violent beating of her heart. 

" Very prettily does Sebastiano de- 
scribe the course of this amour. The 
priest's first struggles to resist tempta- 
tion, his frequent fastings and spiritual 



A MONKISH TALE. 25 

purgings, his growing desperation, his 
final yielding to the spell. To be brief, 
he at last spoke to her, avowed his 
passion, and flung himself, despairing 
and imploring, at her feet." 

" And she ? " asked Ellen, in a voice 
so low that I scarcely heard her. 

" Oh, the story says but little of her 
answer, though doubtless it was to the 
purpose, as the sequel proves. They 
understood one another, and might 
doubtless have been happy, but for one 
unfortunate impediment, which both had 
forgotten. The lady had a husband !" 

Ah, that frightened, beating heart! 
how it leapt and struggled, as the little 
hand still clutched my chair ! I just 
glanced up, and meeting my gaze, she 
made an appealing gesture ; for she 
began to understand. As for him, he 
stood pale and sullen, scowling at me 



26 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

with his seraphic face, and as yet im- 
perfectly comprehending. 

" A husband ! " I repeated, turning 
over a leaf. " He, poor devil, was an 
alchemist, a dreary, doting seeker for 
the elixir of immortal life, and they 
thought him blind. In this they were 
mistaken. As the poor flat flounder on 
the bottom of the sea, lying half buried 
and invisible in the sand and mud, still 
with its watery jelly of an eye surveys 
the liquid welkin overhead, so he, our 
alchemist, was marking much in silence. 
Well, sir, the thing grew, till at last, out 
of that obscure laboratory where the 
dreamer toiled there came a thunderbolt. 
One fine morning the lady was found- 
dead ! " 

" Dead ! " 

They both echoed the word involun- 
tarily. 



A MONKISH TALE. ^7 

" Yes ; but the curious part of the 
affair has yet to be told. They found 
her lying, as if sleeping, in her bed ; so 
sweet, so quiet, so peaceful, no one in the 
world would have dreamed that she had 
been destroyed by a malignant poison. 
Such, however, was the case." 

Santley buttoned his coat, and moved 
nervously towards the door. 

"A horrible story!" he said. "I 
detest these tales of violence and mur- 
der. Besides, though I am not a 
Roman Catholic, I look upon such 
rubbish as a calumny upon the Christian 
Church." 

I smiled. 

"The Church's history, I am afraid, 
offers endless corroborations. " 

" I do not believe it ; and I hold that 
the Church should be saved from such 
attacks." 



28 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

" Pardon me," I persisted ; while 
Ellen's hand was softly laid upon my 
shoulder, as if beseeching me to cease, 
"the Church may be sacred, but so, 
you will admit, is the marriage tie. For 
myself, I am old-fashioned enough to 
sympathize with that poor alchemist, 
and applaud his rough-and-ready mode 
of vengeance." 

" Then you justify a cowardly mur- 
der ? " he returned, trembling violently. 
" But, there, I must really go." 

" Pardon me, I don't call it murder 
at all." 

" Not murder ? " he ejaculated. 

" No, sir ; righteous vengeance. Were 
such a state of things possible now 
though, of course, wives are now all 
pure, and priests all immaculate I 
should recommend the same remedy. 
What, must you go ? Well, good day ; 



A MONKISH TALE. 29 

and pray excuse a scholar's warmth. 
Actually, as I discussed that old monkish 
nonsense, I almost thought it real!' 

He forced a feeble laugh, and then, 
with one long look at my wife, and a 
murmured "Good afternoon" to us both, 
retreated through the drawing-room 
doors. I sat still, as if intent on my 
book. 

The moment he had gone, Ellen 
caught me wildly by the arm. 

" George ! look at me speak to me ! )r 

" Well ? " I said, looking up quietly. 

" What does it mean ? Why did you 
tell that wild tale ? You did not do it 
without a purpose." 

" Certainly not." 

She stood pale as death, clasping her 
hands together. 

" You did not think you could not, 
dare not that " 



3 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

" That what, pray ? " I demanded 
coldly, seeing that she paused. 

" That you suspect that you can 
believe that 

She paused again ; then she added 
pleadingly 

" Oh, George, you would never do 
me such a wrong ! " 

"I have done you no wrong," I re- 
plied. " You, on the other hand, have 
disobeyed me ? " 

"How?" 

"I forbade you to entertain that man 
in my house." 

" He came unexpectedly. Indeed, in- 
deed, I wish he had not come." 

She looked so pretty and so despair- 
ing, that I should have straightway 
forgiven her, had I not suddenly called 
to mind the conversation in the drawing- 
room. Women are strange creatures. 



A MONKISH TALE. 3 T 

At that moment, I am certain she fer- 
vently believed that she was innocent, 
and I cruel. And yet ... I knew, by 
her humility and by her sorrow, that 
she partially reproached herself for 
having awakened my anger. 

" Let there be an end to this," I said. 
" You must never speak to that man 
again." 

" Never speak to him ! " she repeated 
imploringly. " But he is our clergyman, 
and if I break with him there will be 
a scandal. Indeed, George, he is not 
as bad as you think him. He is very 
earnest and impetuous, but he is good 
and noble." 

" What ! do you defend him ? " 

She did not reply. 

" You must choose between him and 
me ; between the man whom you know 
to be a hypocrite, and the man who is 



3 2 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

your husband. If he comes here again, 
I shall deal with him in my own fashion \ 
remember that ! I spared him to-day, 
because I thought him too contemptible 
for any kind of violence. But I know 
his character, and you know it ; that is 
enough. I shall not warn you again." 

With these words, I walked to my 
den. There, once alone, I gave way to 
my overmastering agitation. I found 
myself trembling like a leaf; looking in 
a mirror, I saw that I was pale as a 
ghost. 

An hour passed thus. Then I heard 
a knock at the door. 

Enter Baptisto. 

" Well, what do you want ? " I cried, 
angrily enough. 

Before I knew it he was on his knees, 
seizing and kissing my hand. 

" Senor, I know everything ! " he 



A MONKISH TALE. 33 

cried. " I have known it all along. 
That was why I remained at home 
when you were away to watch, to play 
the spy. Senor, give me leave ! Let 
me avenge you ! " 

I shook him off with an oath, for I 
hated the fellow's sympathy. 

" You fool," I said, " I want no one 
to play the spy for me. Stop, though ! 
What do you mean ? What would you 
like to do ? " 

In a moment he had sprung to his 
feet, and flashed before my eyes one 
of those long knives that Spaniards 
carry. His eyes flashed with homicidal 
fire. 

" I would plunge this into his heart ! " 

I could not help laughing, a little 
furiously. 

" Put up that knife, you idiot ! Put 
it up, I say ! This is England, not 

VOL. III. D 



34 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

Spain, and here we manage matters 
very differently. And now, let me have 
no more of this nonsense. Be good 
enough to go about your business. 1 ' 

He yielded almost instantly to my old 
mastery over him, and, with a re- 
spectful bow, withdrew. So ended the 
curious events of the day. I have set 
them down in their order as they 
occurred. I wonder if this is the last 
act of my little domestic drama ? If not, 
what is to happen next ? Well, we shall 
soon see. 



( 35 ) 



CHAPTER XXIX. 

HUSH-MONEY. 

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

"... beats about the throne, 
And blackens every blot ! " 

Charles Santley was very much mis- 
taken if he imagined that his doings 



3 6 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

altogether escaped scandal. As usual, 
however, the darkest suspicions and 
ugliest innuendoes were reserved for the 
lady ; and before very long Edith Dove 
was the subject of as pretty a piece of 
scandal as ever exercised the gossips of 
even an English village. 

Now, the thing was a long time in 
the air before it reached the ears of 
the person most concerned. Tongues 
wagged, fingers pointed, all the machinery 
of gossip was set in motion for months 
before poor Edith had any suspicion 
whatever. Gradually, however, there 
came upon her the consciousness of 
a certain social change. Several families 
with which she had been on intimate 
terms showed, by signs unmistakable, 
their desire to avoid her visits, and their 
determination not to return them. One 
virtuous spinster, on whom she had 



HUSH-MONEY. 37 

expended a large amount of sympathy, 
not to speak of tea and sugar, openly 
cut her one morning at the post-office ; 
and even the paupers of the village 
showed in their bearing a certain lessen- 
ing of that servility which, in the mind 
of a properly constituted British pauper, 
indicates respect. Things were becoming 
ominous, when, late one evening, her 
aunt boldly broached the subject. 

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

" Where are you going so late ? I 
hope not down to the Vicarage ? " 

Edith turned in astonishment. 

" Yes, I am going there," she replied. 

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

The tone was so decided, the manner 
so peculiar, that Edith was startled in 



38 FOXGLOVE MANORS 

spite of herself. Before she could make 
any remark, her aunt continued 

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

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

" What do they say about me ? " she 
cried. 

" They say you are making a fool of 
yourself; but that is not all. They say 
worse horrible things. Of course I 
know they are untrue, for you were 
always a good girl ; but you are some- 



HUSH-MONEY. 39 

times so indiscreet. When a young girl 
is always in the company of a young 
man, even a clergyman, and nothing 
comes of it, people will talk. Take my 
advice, dear, and put an end to it at 
once ! " 

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

" Put an end to what ? " she said 
quietly. " I don't know what you 
mean." 

" You know well enough, Edith." 

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

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

" Edith, I insist ! You shall not go 



4 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

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

Edith flushed nervously, as she re- 
plied : 

" There is no scandal, aunt ! Mr. 
Santley- -" 

" I have no patience with him. In 
a minister of the gospel, it is dis- 
graceful." 

" What is disgraceful ? " 

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

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

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



HUSH-MONE Y. 4 l 

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

" Edith, what is it ? What do you 
mean ? " 

" That we have been engaged a long 
time." 

"And you did not tell me ? " 

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

" But why ? There is nothing to be 
ashamed of." 

" It is his wish," said the girl, gently. 

Then kissing her aunt again, and 
leaving her much relieved in mind, she 
went away, strolling quietly in the 
direction of the Vicarage. As she 
walked, her tears continued to fall, and 



42 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

her face was very sorrowful ; for there 
lay upon her spirit a heavy shadow of 
terror and distrust. With how different 
an emotion had she, only a year before, 
flown to meet the man she loved ! How 
eagerly and gladly, then, he had awaited 
her coming ! And now ? Alas, she did 
not even know if she would find him at 
all. Sometimes he seemed to avoid her, 
to be weary of her company. All was 
so changed, she reflected, since the Hal- 
danes came -home to the Manor. He 
was no longer the same, and she herself 
was different Would it ever end ? 
Would she ever be happy again ? 

The shadows of night were falling as 
she walked through the lanes, with her 
eyes sadly fixed on the dim spire of the 
village church. Close to a plantation on 
the roadside, she encountered a woman 
and a man in conversation. She recog- 



HUSH-MONEY. 43 

nized the woman at a glance, as Sal 
Bexley, the black sheep of the parish, 
who got her living by singing from one 
public-house to another ; and she had 
passed by without a word, when a voice 
called her. 

" Here, mistress ! " 

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

" I'm afraid you're growing proud, 
mistress. You didn't seem to know 
me." 

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

" No, you don't go like that. I want 
a word. with thee, my fine lady. Ah, 



44 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

you may toss your head, but you'd best 
bide a bit, and listen." 

" What do you want ? I cannot stay." 

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

Edith shuddered and shrank back. 

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

" Dare ? That's a good one ! No, 
you shan't pass till I've done wi' thee." 

Edith was getting positively fright- 
ened, for the girl's manner was so rude 
and threatening, when she saw a tall 
figure approaching, and in a moment 
recognized the clergyman. He was 
close to them, and paused in astonish- 
ment at seeing the two together. 



HUSH-MONEY. 45 

" Miss Dove ! Is anything the mat- 
ter ? Why are you here, so late, and 
in such company ?" 

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

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

" Send me away ? " cried the pariah. 
" I'll come when I please, and I'll go 
when I please. I'm as good as she." 

Mr. Santley stepped forward, and 
placed his hand on her arm. 

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

" So I were ; but I've come back. 
Well ? " 

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



4-6 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

" Down by the river-side, master. I've 
joined the gipsies, d'ye see." 

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

" No, master," answered the girl, grin- 
ning. " I'm a bad lot." 

" I'm afraid you are." 

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

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



HUSH-MONEY. 47 

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

She looked round at Edith, who stood 
by trembling. 

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

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

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

" What for ? " snarled the girl. 



48 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

" For vagrancy, begging, and threaten- 
ing a lady on the roadside ! " 

" A pretty lady. And I bean't beg- 
ging, neither. Well, send me to prison, 
and when I'm up before the magistrates, 
I'll tell 'em why you were down upon 
me. Come ! " 

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

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

" She does not deserve a farthing," 
exclaimed Santley. "Still, if you wish 
it " 

" Yes, yes ! I I am sorry for her." 

Santley opened the purse, and took 
out a sovereign. 

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



HUSH-MONEY. 49 

" Maybe." 

" And to conduct yourself properly 
to turn over a new leaf ? " 

Sal grinned viciously from ear to 
ear. 

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

Santley and Edith rapidly exchanged 
a look, and a second piece of gold was 
at once added to the first. Then, after 
giving Sal a few words of solemn warn- 
ing, in his priestly character, Santley 
walked away with Edith. The pariah 
girl watched them until they disap- 
peared ; then, with a low laugh, she 
rejoined her companion, a one-eyed and 

VOL. III. E 



50 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

middle-aged gipsy, who, during the 
preceding scene, had phlegmatically 
stretched himself on his back, along the 
roadside. 






CHAPTER XXX. 

"" AND LO ! WITHIN HER, SOMETHING 
LEAPT ! " 

'S ANT LEY and Edith walked along for 
some time without a word. At last, 
after looking round nervously to see 
that they were not observed or followed, 
the clergyman broke the silence. 

"It is horrible! It is insufferable!'* 
he cried. " I shall be ruined by your 
indiscretion." 

She looked at him in amazement. It 
was too dark to see his face, but his 
whole frame, as well as his voice, trembled 
with anger. 



52 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

" My indiscretion ! " she echoed. 

" Yes." 

" But I have done nothing." 

" I found you talking to that creature,, 
and it is evident that she knows our 
secret. I shall be ruined through you. 
What have you told her ? " 

" Nothing. I met her by accident, 
and she spoke to me ; that is all." 

There was a pause. Then Santley 
stopped short, saying in a whisper 

" Go home now. After to-day we 
must not be seen together." 

But she clung to his arm, weeping. 

" Charles, for God's sake, do not be so 
unkind ! " 

"I am not unkind," he said; "but 
I am thinking of your good name, as 
well as of my own reputation. What 
that woman knows others must knowv 
It will be the talk of the place. Edith, 



" WITHIN HER, SOMETHING LEAPT.'" 5 3 

think of it. We shall both be lost. Go 
home, I entreat you." 

" Charles, listen to me ! " exclaimed 
the weeping girl. " If there is any 
scandal it will kill me. But there need 
to be none. You have only to keep 
your word, as you have promised, and 
then- 

" What ? and marry you ? " 

"Yes." 

" I cannot at least, not yet." 

" Why not ? Oh, Charles, have I not 
been patient ? There is nothing but 
your own will to come between us. 
Make me your wife, as you have pro- 
mised, before it is too late. Even my 
aunt begins to suspect something. My 
life is miserable a daily falsehood. I 
have loved you next to God. For your 
sake I have even forgotten Him. I 
thought there was no sin ; you yourself 



54 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

told me there was ho sin that we were 
man and wife in God's sight. But now 
I am terrified. I cannot sleep, I cannot 
pray. Sometimes I feel as if God had 
cast me out. And you 

She ceased, choked with tears, and,, 
placing her head upon his shoulder, 
sobbed wildly. He shrank from her 
touch, and sought to disengage himself, 
gazing round on every side and searching 
the darkness in dread of being watched. 

" Control yourself. If we should be 
seen !'' 

But she did not seem to hear, and his. 
anger increased in proportion to her 
terror. 

" Dp you want to compromise me ? '" 
he cried. " I begin to think you have 
no discretion, no respect for yourself- 
I hate these scenes. They make me 
wish that we had never met." 



" \V1THL\ HER, SOMETHING LEAPT! '' 55 

" If I thought you wished that from 
your heart," she sobbed, " I would not 
live another day." 

" There, again. You are so un- 
reasonable, so violent. When I attempt 
to reason, you talk of suicide or some 
such mad thing. If you- really loved 
me, as you say, you would be willing 
to make some sacrifice for my sake. 
But no ; you have only one cry mar- 
riage, marriage ! till I am sick of the 
very word. Cease crying. Dry your 
eyes, and listen to me. Go home to- 
night, and I will think it over. Yes, I 
will do what I can anything, rather 
than be so tormented." 

She obeyed him passively, and tried 
to stifle her deep sorrow. Child as she 
was, and loving him as she did, she 
could not bear his words of blame ; and 
her soul shuddered at the strange tones 



56 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

of the voice that had once been so kind. 
For it was as she had said. She had 
made an idol of this man, next to God. 
She had offered up to him, at his pas- 
sionate request, her young life, her purity 
of heart, her very soul. He had been 
God's voice and very presence to her ; 
ah ! so beautiful ! She had been content 
to lie at his feet, to obey him like a 
slave, to accept his will as law, even 
when the law seemed evil. And now 
he was so changed. Not base ah ! no, 
she could not bear to think him base ; 
not base still good, but cruel. Was 
she losing him ? Was she destined to 
lose him for ever, and, with him, surely 
her immortal soul ? 

" Good night," she moaned. " I will 
go home." 

And she held up her face for his kiss ; 
then, as he kissed her, she yielded again 






" WITHIN HER, SOMETHING LEAPT.'" 5 7 

to her emotion, and clung, wildly crying, 
about his neck. 

" Oh, Charles, be true to me ! I have 
no one in the world but you." 

With that fond appeal she left him, 
turning her tearful face homeward. On 
reaching the cottage she found the door 
ajar, stole quietly up to her room, and 
locked herself in. A few minutes after- 
wards her aunt knocked. 

" Are you there, Edith ? Supper is 
ready." 

" I have a headache, and am going to 
bed," she replied, stifling her sobs. 

" May I not come in ? " said the old 
lady. "I want to speak to you." 

" Not to-night. I am so tired." 

She heard the feeble feet descending 
the stairs, and again resigned herself to 
sorrow. Presently, when she had grown 
a little calmer, she arose, lit a candle, and 



5 8 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

proceeded to undress. The moon, which 
had newly risen, shone through the 
cottage window, with its white blinds, 
and the faint rays, creeping in, mingled 
with the yellow candle-light. The room 
was like a white rose, all pale and pure ; 
and the girl herself, when she was un- 
dressed and clad in her night-dress, 
seemed the purest thing there. But the 
night-dress felt like a shroud, and she felt 
ready for the grave. 

She knelt by the bed to say her 
prayers. 

How long she remained on her knees 
she knew not. While her lips repeated, 
half aloud, the prayers she had learned 
as a child, and those which, in later 
years, she had framed to include the 
name of the man she loved, her tears 
still fell, and with her long hair streaming 
over her shoulders, and her little hands 



" WITHIN HER, SOMETHING LEAPT!" 59 

clasped together, she sobbed and sobbed. 
The moonlight crept further into the 
room, and touched her like a silver hand 
not tenderly, not pityingly ; nay, it 
might have been the very hand of the 
Madonna herself, bidding her arise to 
face her fate. 

She arose shivering ; and at that very 
instant there came to her a warning, 
an omen, full of nameless terror. It 
seemed to her as if faces were flashing 
before her eyes, voices shrieking in her 
ears ; her heart leapt, her head went 
round, and at the same moment she felt 
her whole being miraculously thrilled 
by the quickening of a new life within 
her own. 

With a loud moan, she fainted away 
upon the floor. 

When she returned to consciousness, 
she was lying, nearly naked, by the bed- 



60 FOXGLOVE MANOR, 

side, and the moonlight was flooding the 
little room. She arose, dazed, stupefied, 
and appalled. Her limbs shook beneath 
her, and she had to clutch the bedstead 
for support. Then she tottered to the 
dressing-table, and holding the candle, 
looked into the mirror. 

Reflected there was a face of ghastly 
whiteness, with two great despairing 
eyes, wildly gazing into her own. 



CHAPTER XXXI. 

A LAST APPEAL. 

THE night had passed away, and the 
chilly light of dawn creeping into Edith's 
room, found her quietly sleeping. Dur- 
ing that night, when the full horror of her 
situation had flashed for the first time 
upon her, she had passed through hours 
of agony similar to those which have 
turned pretty brown hair grey ; then, 
overcome by a sense of thorough mental 
exhaustion, she had laid her head upon 
the pillow and slept. 

She slept long and soundly. 

When she opened her eyes she saw 



62 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

that it was broad daylight ; indeed, the 
day was well spent, for her aunt, after 
tapping gently at her door and receiving 
no reply, had determined not to disturb 
her rest. 

Her first feeling on opening her eyes 
was one of pleasure, such pleasure as is 
felt by a young matron, when the know- 
ledge of approaching maternity first 
dawns upon her ; but this feeling was 
only momentary, and was succeeded in 
this case by one of intense mental pain. 

She lay for a time, thinking of the 
past, and trying to penetrate the future. 
She recalled her interviews with Santley ; 
the last interview which had taken place 
only the night before. She remembered 
with pleasure the promise he had made, 
and she tried to think that all would yet 
be well. Yes, even when he knew 
nothing, he had yielded to her solici- 



A LAST APPEAL. 63 

tations ; and as soon as he knew 
for of course at their next meeting 
she must tell him he would not 
hesitate for a single day. He had a 
double duty now : not only had he to 
save her reputation, he had to think of 
the future of his child. He had said 
that he would think it over ; that the 
next day, this very day, she should hear 
from him. He would appoint a meeting, 
then when she saw him, if he still hesi- 
tated, she would tell him, and he would 
hesitate no longer. 

All that day Edith remained in the 
house, pale, silent, but expectant. At 
every sound she started and looked 
anxiously towards the door ; but Mr. 
Santley made no sign. At last, disap- 
pointed and heart-broken, she went up 
to bed. 

Several days passed thus. Edith 



64 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

fearing to cross the threshold, shrinking 
in horror at the thought of meeting any 
of her fellow-creatures, moved about the 
house in pale, sad silence ; expectant 
sometimes, at others crying her heart 
out in sickening despair. The suspense 
was terrible ; and . terrible too was the 
thought of having to bear her secret 
sorrow entirely alone. If she could 
only see him, tell him, feel his passionate 
kiss, and hear his whispered words of 
comfort, her trouble, she thought, would 
be lightened by one half. Never had she 
needed him so much ; yet never, she 
thought, had she seemed so utterly 
alone. 

And with this hopeless dread upon 
her, this sense of mental agony which 
seemed to be wearing her very life away, 
she waited and waited for the words 
which never came. 



A LAST APPEAL. 



65. 



At last she felt she could wait noi 
longer. Since it was evident he did not 
intend to send to her, she determined to 
send to him. So she wrote 

" For Heaven's sake come to me. I 
must see you at once. Charles, for both; 
our sakes, do not neglect my request. 

" EDITH." 



It was a mad letter to write, and at 
another time Edith would not have 
written it ; but now her trouble seemed 
to be turning her brain. She deter- 
mined to trust it to no hands but her 
own ; so, having written and sealed it, 
she put on her hat and cloak to take it 
to the post. 

It was the first time she had been out 
since that night when she had fainted 
upon her bedroom floor, and nothing 

VOL. III. F 



66 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

but a sense of utter desperation would 
have forced her from the house even 
now. For she felt as if her secret was 
known to all the world ; that curious 
eyes looked questioningly into hers, and 
honest faces turned from her ; and that 
by one and all she was left to walk 
along her troubled path alone. 

It was not late in the afternoon, but 
the time for long bright evenings had long 
since passed away. Though the church 
clock had not long struck five, darkness 
was coming on, and a keen north wind 
was blowing. Edith, who was thickly 
veiled and well wrapped up in a large 
fur cloak, walked quickly as if to keep 
herself warm. She reached the village, 
slipped her letter into the post, then 
hurriedly turned to retrace her steps 
homewards. She had accomplished 
about half the distance, and was 



A LAST APPEAL. 67 

walking very hurriedly, when suddenly 
she stopped, and her heart gave a great 
bound. There in the road, quietly 
walking towards her, was Mr. Santley. 

Edith stood for a moment, feeling 
almost suffocated through the quick 
beating of her heart ; then, with the 
wild impetuosity of a child, she ran 
forward and, seizing his hand, ex- 
claimed 

" Oh, I am glad, so very, very glad 
that I have met you ! Oh, Charles ! 
Charles ! how could you leave me so 
long alone ? " 

Santley, utterly taken aback by this 
wild exhibition of feeling, stared at the 
girl in calm amazement ; then he said 
impatiently, shaking her hands away 

" Edith, how many more times am I 
to tell you that these violent scenes of 
yours will be my ruin ! " 



68 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

But this time Edith was not to be 
cowed. She said 

" I cannot help it, Charles. You 
bring it on yourself by breaking every 
promise that you make to me." 

" Every promise ? What promise ? 
What have I done now ? " 

Edith looked up at him, her tearful 
eyes full of amazement as she said 

"Do you not remember ? Have you 
really forgotten, dear, the last time we 
were together I asked you to do me 
justice to reward my long patience by 
making me your wife ? You said, ' I will 
think of it. Yes, I think I will do as 
you wish, and I will let you know to- 
morrow.' Well, Charles, to-morrow 
never came. I waited and waited, and 
you never sent a word. At last I could 
wait no longer. I have just been down 
to the village to post a letter, asking 
you to come to me." 



A LAST APPEAL. 69 

The clergyman's brow darkened omi- 
nously, and a very angry light shone in 
his handsome eyes. 

" It is ridiculous ! " he exclaimed. 
" Edith, you have no more reasoning 
power than a child. Why could you 
not have waited ? A matter like that 
required serious deliberation ; it could, 
not be decided in a day." 

In point of fact, he had never once 
deliberated over the matter at all. 
Having comfortably got rid of Edith 
that night, he had dismissed both the 
girl and the subject of their conver- 
sation entirely from his mind. It was 
not necessary to tell her this, however. 
.So when, after waiting to hear more 
from him, she asked quietly, " Have you 
considered, Charles ? Have you de- 
cided ? " he answered 

" Yes. After thinking of it very 



7 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

deeply, and after having considered it 
from every point of view, I have de- 
cided it would be much better for us 
both to wait !" 

She started, and the hand which lay 
on his arm trembled violently. 

" No ; you have not decided that ! " 
she exclaimed in a sort of gasp. 

" I am not in the habit of lying to 
you, Edith." 

The girl clung piteously to his arm. 

" No, no ; I did not mean that," she 
exclaimed. " But if you have decided 
so, you will change your mind, dear,, 
will you not? I have been very patient. 
I have waited and waited, because you 
wished it, dear; but now it is different. 
I can wait no longer ! " 

" I tell you, Edith, it will be better 
for us both ! " 

" Charles, Charles ! " exclaimed the 



A LAST APPEAL. 7 l 

girl piteously, trembling more and more, 
" we have others besides ourselves to 
think of. We must not, dare not, in- 
jure an innocent life which never injured 
us. If you will not repair the wrong 
which you have done to me, you must 
think of of the child ! " 

She lowered her head as she spoke, 
and hid her face on his bosom. 

There was silence. Then Santley 
spoke. 

" Is this so, Edith ?" 

" Yes, dear ; it is so ! " 

Again there was silence. Edith, trem- 
bling and almost happy, with her blush- 
ing face still hidden on his bosom, was 
waiting for him to bring her comfort, by 
gathering her fondly to his heart. But 
she waited in vain. The cold hands 
scarcely touched her shoulder ; and the 
lovely eyes, gazing over her head, were 



7 2 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

fixed on vacancy. He was not thinking 
of her. Indeed, for the moment, he 
seemed scarcely conscious of her pre- 
sence. As usual, he was thinking of 
himself, wondering what, in this ex- 
tremely unpleasant emergency, it would 
be better for him to do. The news was 
not altogether startling to him. It was 
an event which, under existing circum- 
stances, might reasonably have been 
expected ; but hitherto it had not been 
of sufficient importance to trouble the 
clergyman's thoughts. " Sufficient for 
the day is the evil thereof," had hitherto 
been his motto ; consequently, for the 
moment he felt as if a mine had sud- 
denly sprung beneath his feet. So when 
Edith raised her head, and asked tear- 
fully, " Are you very angry, Charles ? " 
he answered coldly, almost irritably 
" You cannot expect me to be pleased, 




. A LAST APPEAL. 73 

Edith. But there is no use in talk- 
ing about that. What we must dis- 
cuss is, what is the next thing to be 
done ? " 

What was best to be done ? It seemed 
to Edith there was only one thing that 
could be done, and she said so, quietly 
and firmly. But Santley, frowning 
ominously, positively shook her in his 
irritable impatience. 

" Always harping on the one string ! " 
he exclaimed angrily ; " and yet I tell 
you it is impossible." 

" But why is it impossible ? " 

" There are a dozen reasons why I 
cannot marry you just now." 

" Then what am I to do ? Am I to 
be publicly disgraced and brought to 
shame ? Is my whole life to be ruined 
because of my love for you ? Oh, it 
is cruel, and piteously unjust ! " 



74 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

" Edith, will you listen to reason ? 
Will you have patience ? " 

" Will I have patience ? " repeated 
the poor girl. " Have I not had patience ? 
And my forbearance is well-nigh gone ; 
I cannot bear it. Charles, think for 
a moment of what all this means to 
me, and have some pity." 

" Edith, will you listen to me ? " 

" Yes. Speak ; I will listen," she re- 
turned wearily, trying to stifle the sobs 
which almost choked her. 

" If you will only control your violence 
and be guided by me, there need be 
no disgrace in the matter either to you 
or to me. No one knows of this ; no 
one need know. All you have to do 
is to remain quietly at home until a 
further concealment of the truth would 
be impossible ; then you will leave home, 
as you have done before, to visit your 



A LAST APPEAL. 75 

friends. Once free of the village, you 
will go to a place which I shall have 
found for you ; and, afterwards, return 
home." 

She listened quietly while he spoke. 
When he ceased, she said nothing. Pre- 
sently he said 

" Edith, have you been listening ? " 

"Yes ; I have heard." 

" And what do you think ? " 

" I think," returned the girl, in a voice 
of utter and hopeless despair a voice 
which would have rent the heart of 
any man but this one, " I think,. 
Charles, that your love for me, if it 
ever existed, is dead and buried. I 
think, nay, I am quite sure, that you 
have decided never to make me your 
wife." 

" This is folly." 

" Charles, it is the truth. If you had 



76 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

any love, any feeling for me, you would 
not, could not, speak as you have done 
to-night. If you meant to make me 
your wife, you would not subject me 
to such utter shame." 

The clergyman entirely lost his self- 
command. He uttered an exclamation, 
and impatiently freed himself from her 
touch. 

" Your shame," he said ; " your dis- 
grace it is always that. But what of 
me ? Have I no caste to lose ? You talk 
of my love, but what of yours ? If it 
exists, does it fill you with the least 
consideration for me ? If you talk like 
this, you will make me wish that we 
had never met." 

" How much better it would have 
been for me ! " 

" You think so ? Thank God, it is 
not too late to part." 



A LAST APPEAL. 77 

" But it is too late ! " cried the girl, 
wildly. " I tell you, it is too late for 
me!" 

" But it is not too late for me," said 
Santley, between his set teeth. 

"Charles, what do you mean ? Answer 
me, for God's sake. Will you not make 
me your wife ? " 

" No." 

Without a moment's hesitation, with- 
out a tremor of the voice, the pitiless 
word was spoken. The girl staggered 
back, and clasped her hands to her 
head. It was as if a bullet had entered 
her brain. With a wild cry, she stretched 
forth her hands towards him, but he 
pushed her roughly away. 

" You heard what I said. I mean it. 
You yourself have opened my eyes, and 
I see. If I can help you as as your 
pastor, I will do so ; but I cannot, I 



7 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

will not, make a sacrifice of my whole 
life. You always know where to find 
me. I repeat, I shall always be glad 
to give you such assistance as a clergy- 
man can give." 



( 79 ) 



CHAPTER XXXII. 

' ! AUF'! HINAUS ! IN'S WEITE LAND!" 

FOR several days after that meeting, it 
seemed to Mrs. Russell that Edith was 
sickening for a fever. Edith herself was 
afraid that the terrible trial through 
which she had passed, was likely to have 
serious results. In her agony, the girl 
prayed to die ; but for her there was no 
such mercy. At the end of a few days 
the ominous symptoms had passed away, 
and Edith was almost herself again. No 
doctor had been sent for. Mrs. Russell 
in her anxiety, was eager for him to see 
her niece ; but Edith, driven almost dis- 



8o FOXGLO VE MA NOR. 

tracted at the thought, had refused so 
decidedly to see him that her Aunt had 
yielded, and had promised to put off 
sending to him for a few days. At the 
end of a few days Edith was better, so 
no message was sent, and the doctor 
never came. 

So the time wore on. Winter had 
fairly set in, and everybody in the village 
was making preparations for Christmas, 
Mrs. Russell following the fashion of all 
the rest. From morning till night she 
was herself employed with the maid in 
the kitchen, chopping up mincemeat, and 
preparing various other dainties for 
Christmas fare. But her kindly face 
was troubled ; she was always thinking of 
Edith, who was so sadly changed. The 
illness which had been so much dreaded 
had passed away, it is true, but some- 
thing almost as pitiable had been left in 



"FLIEIT! AUF'f HINAUS!" ETC. 8 1 

its place. The girl looked pale and 
worn, and old before her time. She 
never crossed the threshold, but sat at 
home day after day, shivering over the 
fire, and when questioned by her aunt, 
she merely said 

" I don't feel very well. But don't 
notice me, aunt dear ; go on with your 
preparations for Christmas. I like to 
think that you will make the house 
bright, for I am sure I shall be better, 
so much better, when Christmas comes." 

Mrs. Russell, according to her usual 
custom, wanted to have company, since 
it was dull, she said, for two lonely 
women to spend their Christmas to- 
gether. So she proposed to her niece 
that she should write to Mrs. Hether- 
ington, asking her to come, with her son, 
and eat her Christmas dinner at the 
cottage. But this idea was opposed by 

VOL. III. G 



82 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

Edith as vehemently as the doctor's 
visit had been ; and in this case, as in 
the other, the aunt had yielded. 

"Well, Edith, shall I ask them for 
the New Year ? " she asked ; and the 
girl, eagerly seizing the respite, had 
answered 

" Yes, aunt ; for the New Year. For 
this once, you and I will spend our 
Christmas alone." 

So the time passed on, until one 
morning Edith opened her eyes, and lay 
listening to the Christmas bells. 

" Peace on earth, good will towards 
men ! " 

That was the message they were 
chiming forth ; that was the doctrine he 
must preach to-day. He, through whose 
cruelty she, who only last Christmas had 
been a happy, contented girl, now lay 
there a very sorrowful, weary woman. 



"FLIEH'f AUF! HINAUS!" ETC. 83 

Would he think of her when he stood 
in his pulpit, gazing into the enraptured 
faces of his flock, and preaching to them 
the gospel of faith and love ? Would 
he think for one moment of this poor 
girl, whom he had made an outcast ? 

W T hen mother and daughter sat at 
.breakfast, Edith announced her deter- 
:mination to stay at home as usual ; so 
Mrs. Russell went alone through the 
snow to hear the vicar's sermon. She 
was sorry Edith was not with her, she 
said to herself again and again, as she sat 
in the church, listening in rapt attention 
to the benevolent gospel which Mr. 
Santley preached. He had never been 
known to have spoken so well before, 
and when he had finished, one half -of 
the congregation had been reduced to 
tears. 

Mrs. Russell told Edith all about it at 



84 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

dinner, and again expressed her sorrow 
that Edith had not been there to hear. 
To this the girl said nothing, but there 
passed over her face a look it was well 
the aunt did not see. 

Thus the day passed a day so full of 
joy to some, so full of sadness to others.. 
Well, joy and sadness were ended. Mrs. 
Russell, following her usual custom, 
reached down the old family Bible, and 
read from it ; then, taking her niece's 
hand in hers, she knelt down to say a 
prayer. When they rose from their 
knees, Edith put her arms round her 
aunt's neck, and kissed her fondly. 

" Aunt dear," she said, " I have 
often been a great trouble to you I 
have often caused you disappointment 
and a deal of unnecessary pain ; but to- 
night, on Christmas night, when we 
should all forgive and love one another, 



"FLIEH'J AUF > HINAUS !* ETC- 85 

you will tell me, will you not, that you 
forgive me ? " 

With strange, wondering eyes, the old 
lady looked at her niece, so pale and 
sadly changed ; then she kissed her, as 
she said 

"My darling, what there is to forgive 
I forgive. We cannot all do as we 
ought, Edith we are poor creatures at 
the best of times but you are a good 
girl, Edith ; and perhaps, after all, things 
have shaped themselves for the best." 

The old lady, all unconscious of the 
real state of things, was thinking of the 
collapse of the pet scheme she had had 
of making Walter Hetherington her son. 

" Dear aunt," said Edith, fondly, 
" it was impossible." 

" Yes, yes ; I know that now, my 
dear : and perhaps, after all, as I said 
before, it is for the best. There, don't 



86 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

think of it again to-night, dear, but go- 
to bed and rest ! " 

So Edith went to her room ; and 
while the rest of the household were 
falling into blessed, tranquil slumber, 
she sat, dressed as she was, upon the 
bed and stared vacantly before her. 
She did not weep; her time for that 
had passed away, even as the greatness 
of her sorrow grew. Her face was fixed 
and determined ; her heart seemed to- 
have hardened to stone. For days and 
days she had waited for she knew not 
what ; but a vague kind of hopefulness 
had taken possession of her heart, and 
she had allowed it to remain. Perhaps, 
during those terrible days of agonizing- 
suspense, she had thought that she 
might have received some word or sign 
from him. It had been a vague, almost 
a hopeless, hope ; nevertheless, it had 



" FLIEW ! AUF f HINAUS 1 ETC. 7 

been that one spark which had kept 
life within her. But now that hope was 
gone : he had made no sign. And with 
the knowledge that she could no longer 
conceal her shame, came also the as- 
surance that the man for whose sake 
she had sinned, had pitilessly abandoned 
her. 

Edith, sitting at home by the fire that 
day, had thought over all this, while her 
aunt had been at church listening to 
the vicar's touching sermon ; and, after 
having forced herself to accept and 
acknowledge the truth, she had finally 
decided what she must do. She had 
decided ; it but remained for her to 
act. She had determined to leave her 
home that night ; to walk whither her 
wandering footsteps might lead her, and 
leave no trace behind. 

So, having reached her room, she sat 



oo FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

until the house was quiet ; then she 
rose, and began to make her prepara- 
tions for departure. She went to a 
drawer, and took from it what money 
still remained there some bank-notes 
and gold and stitched it firmly in a 
fold of her dress ; then she put on her 
hat and warm winter cloak, and stood 
ready. 

The village clocks were striking 
twelve. 

She opened her door and listened. 
All was still ; so she passed quietly 
.onwards, after securely locking her bed- 
room door passed noiselessly down the 
stairs, out of the house, and stood in 
the darkness alone. 

It was a bitter night. The snow lay 
thick all round her, and the cruel wind 
which blew seemed to turn the life-blood 
in her veins to ice. 



"FLIEfn AUF'f HINAUS!" ETC. 89 

Edith stood for a moment, chilled to 
the heart. She gave one look at the 
home she was leaving ; then, as if fear- 
ing the strength of her own resolution, 
she turned and quickly pursued her 
way. 

Whither she went she knew not, nor 
did she care to know ; she only knew 
that every step was taking her further 
and further from her home, and from 
the man who had broken her heart. 
So she walked on quickly, with her 
cloak wrapped well about her, and bend- 
ing her head to shelter her face from 
the bitter breath of the wind. 

She walked on and on, while the 
darkness gathered above her and the 
snow lay thick all around. Sometimes 
she sat down to rest, and then the 
thought came to her, that perhaps it 
would be better if she could end it all ; 



9 . FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

if she could but lie down on the frozen- 
earth, with the snow wrapped like a 
mantle around her, and sink to her 
eternal sleep. Henceforth there would 
be no more sorrow and no more pain. 
The idea having occurred to her, took 
possession of her mind, and held to it 
tenaciously. Oh, if she could only die ! 
close her eyes in the darkness, and 
feel for a moment that blessed peace 
which had passed from her for ever ! 
Yes, Edith knew it would be better ; 
though, with the instinct implanted in 
all human things, she shrank from death, 
she knew that his presence would be 
merciful. Henceforth, what would life 
be to her an outcast, a thing to be 
spoken of with pitiless contempt, to be 
hidden for ever from the sight of all 
her fellow-men ? Then she asked her- 
self, "Would it be a sin to take the 






"FLIEH'f AUF\> H IN A US'" ETC. 9 1 

life which God had given her, and yield 
it up to Him ? " No ; she believed it 
would be no sin. 

She walked on and on. Then once 
more, in the bitter anguish of her heart, 
she cried on God to be merciful to her. 
For, weary with travelling, cold and 
sick at heart, she cast herself down 
upon the snow, and sobbed 

" Oh, if I could only die ! " 

But death did not come. The snow 
closed all round her as she lay fainting 
and cold ; but she did not die. Its icy 
touch, lying on her parched lips and 
brow, revived her. With wild, wander- 
ing eyes, she looked around. 

The night was well-nigh spent, and 
the sky gave tokens of quickly approach- 
ing dawn. As every hour passed on, 
the air grew colder, and now its touch 
chilled her to the very bone ; she 



92 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

shivered, yet her brow, her lips, and 
hands were burning. She tried to 
think, but could not; even the events 
of the past were becoming strangely 
blurred and dim. 

Where was she ? She hardly knew ; 
yet she must have wandered many, 
many miles from home, since she was 
footsore, and growing very faint for lack 
of food. She listened feverishly, and her 
ear caught the murmuring of a running 
stream. 

She rose ; but her limbs were feeble, 
for she staggered and fell again upon 
the ground. Then she cried from very 
weakness, and a sense of utter helpless- 
ness and loneliness. 

After a while she rose again. How 
her hands and lips burned ! Her brain 
was in wild confusion, and everything 
about her seemed fading into the 



" t FLIEW! AUF'f HIKAVS ! ETC. 93 

mystery of a dream. Was it coming, 
that death for which she had prayed ? 

Suddenly a wild fear seized her. If 
she fell and lay here on the snow, she 
might be recognized by some passing 
traveller and taken home ! That must 
not be. She must never be found, and 
then no one would ever know. 

As this new terror seized her, she 
heard again the rippling of the stream. 
It seemed to lure her on. She thrust 
a handful of snow into her mouth, and 
staggered forward. The sweet sound 
of the running water came nearer and 
nearer. She stood now on the banks 
of the stream a stream deep and rapid, 
flowing between banks now laden with 
snow. Edith looked down into the 
dark, cold water, and thought, " If I lay 
there, quiet and cold, no one would 
ever find me, and no one would ever 



94 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

know." " Yes, yes ; it would be better," 
she cried. " The water called me, and 
I have come ! " And, with a wild sob, 
she sprang forward, and sank beneath 
the swiftly flowing waters of the stream. 

When Edith opened her eyes, she 
found herself lying upon a bed of straw. 
She was dressed in dry clothes, sheltered 
by a canvas roof, warmed by a fire, and 
watched by a woman. Her eyes, after 
having carelessly noted these things, 
remained fixed on the face of the 
woman, for she had recognized the bold 
black eyes of Sal Blexley. 

Edith remained dumb, but Sal broke 
the silence with a loud laugh. 

" Yes, it's me, my lady," she said. 
" I said we should meet again, and so 
we have, you see. I thought it would 
come to this." 



"FLIEIT! AUF ! HI N A US ./ ETC. 95 

" Where am I ? " asked Edith, faintly. 

" Where are ye ? Why, in a gipsy 
tent, with me and my pals. I was out 
on the rampage with my chap, when 
we saw ye throw yourself in the river. 
I got him to fish you out more dead 
than alive, I bet and between us we 
brought ye here. There, don't shrink 
away, and don't look afeard. I ain't 
agoin' to harm ye. Your man's deserted 
ye, I reckon. Well, ye despised me 
once, ye know, and so did he ; but I 
mean to let ye see that 'tain't only 
gentlefolks and clergy that can do a 
good turn to them as wants it." 



9 6 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 



CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE NOTE-BOOK AGAIN. 

December 15. The first snow fell yes- 
terday. As I write, the air is still 
darkened with the falling flakes. From 
here to the village is spread a soft 
white carpet, ankle-deep. I am more 
than usually interested in this cornmon 
phenomenon, as I can tell, by the deep 
footprints, exactly who is coming and 
going. One track interests me especially 
that of a shapely foot, clad in an 
elegant, tightly fitting boot. Its holy 
owner came as far as the lodge gate, no 
further. To make certain that I was not 



THE NOTE-BOOK AGAIN. 97 

mistaken, I inquired of the lodge-keeper, 
and found that the clergyman had passed 
this morning. 

As matters stand now, I can arrange 
everything with coolness and sang froid, 
for I am really the master of the situa- 
tion. I hold this man, as it were, in the 
hollow of my hand. I know his life, his 
comings and goings, his offences against 
social propriety, against his own con- 
science ; there is not a step of that poor 
instrument, his soul, of which I am not 
master. Despite all this, he is still 
absolutely blind to his danger. He 
thinks me sleeping sound, when I am 
wide awake. Imbecile ! 

Well, I mean to have my revenge, 
somehow or other ; how and when, I 
have not exactly determined. I should 
like to read my satyr such a lesson as 
would last him for a lifetime ; and of 

VOL III. H 



9 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

course, without any kind of public 
scandal. I have thought once or twice 
of a way, but it would, perhaps, be 
playing with fire to attempt it ; nor is 
it easy to carry out without my wife's 
co-operation. 

As for Ellen, she remains restless and 
bewildered ; certain of the man's un- 
worthiness, yet fascinated by his per- 
tinacity. She goes to church, as usual ; 
otherwise, she avoids Santley as much 
as possible. What would she say, if I 
were to tell her all I know ? I am 
afraid, after all, it would not facilitate 
her cure ; for, strange to say, women love 
a scoundrel of the amorous kind. 

" That we should call these delicate creatures ours, 
And not their sentiments ! " 

Yes, it is nothing but sentiment, I 
know. She is as pure as crystal, but 
she cannot quite forget that she was 



THE NOTE-BOOK AGAIN. 99 

once a foolish maid, and this man an 
impassioned boy ; and he comes to her, 
moreover, in the shining vestments of a 
beautiful, though lying, creed. I shall 
have to be cruel, I am afraid, very cruel, 
before I can quite cure her. . . . Pshaw ! 
what am I thinking, writing ? Folly, 
folly ! I am trying to survey Ellen 
Haldane philosophically, to assume a 
calmness, though I have it not though 
all the time my spirit is in arms against 
her. I am jealous, damnably jealous, 
that is all. 

To talk about the crystal purity of a 
woman who has a moral cancer, which 
must kill her if it is not killed ! To 
describe her folly as mere sentiment, 
when I know, more than most men, that 
such sentiment as that is simple con- 
science-poisoning ! If I did not save 
her, if I were not by with my protecting 



100 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

hand, she would assuredly be lost. Well, 
I shall cure her, as I said, or kill her in 
the attempt. Once, when a boy, in a 
Parisian hospital, I saw an ouvreuse 
operated upon, for a tumorous deposit, 
which necessitated the excision of the 
whole of the right breast. It was before 
the days of chloroform, and the patient's 
agony was terrible to witness. But she 
was saved. For the moral cancer also, 
the knife may be the only remedy ; and 
it will be, as in the other case, kill or 
cure. 

Meantime, our domestic life goes on 
with characteristic monotony. We have 
no quarrels, and no confidences. We eat, 
drink, and sleep like comfortable wedded 
people. The greater part of my day is 
spent among my books ; the greater part 
of hers in simple domestic duties, in music, 
in wanderings about the gardens. She 




THE NOTE-BOOK AGAIN. 



IOI 



seldom visits in the parish now ; but the 
poor come to her on stated days, and 
she is, as ever, charitable. At least once 
every Sunday she goes to church. 

A sombre, sultry state of the atmo- 
sphere, with gathering thunder ! 

December 20. I have been reading, 
to-day, Naquet's curious pamphlet on 
" Divorce," a subject which is just now 
greatly exercising our neighbours across 
the Channel. This study, combined with 
that of two new attempts in Zolaesque 
(which a French friend has been good 
enough to send me), has left me with a 
certain sense of nausea. Gradually, but 
surely, I am afraid, I am losing that fine 
British faith in the feminine ideal, which 
was among the legacies left me by a 
perfect mother. It is dawning upon 
me, at middle age, as it dawns upon a 
Parisian at twenty-one, that women are, 



102 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

at best, only the highest, or among the 
highest, of animals, and that sanitary 
precautions of the State must be taken 
to keep them cleanly. It is this 
discovery which, perpetuated in Art, 
makes the whole literature of the Second 
Empire so repulsive to an English 
Philistine. " And smell so "-faugh ! " 
Are the days of chivalry, then, over ? 
Is the ideal of pure maidenhood, of per- 
fect womanhood, utterly overthrown ? 
Is the modern woman not Imogen, not 
Portia, not the lily maid of Ascolat, not 
Romola, not even Helen Pendennis ? 
but Messalina, Lucretia nay, even 
Berthe Rougon, or the shamble- haunting 
wife of Claude, or the utterable Madame 
Bovary ? Surely, surely, there cannot 
be all this literary smoke without some 
little social fire. Thank God, therefore, 
that the wise Republic has taken to the 



THE NOTE-BOOK AGAIN. 



103 



drastic remedy of crushing those vipers, 
the Christian priests, and of abolishing 
the solemn farce of the marriage cere- 
mony. Marriage is a simple contract, 
not an arrangement made in heaven ; it 
is social and sanitary, not religious and 
ideal ; and when any of the conditions 
are broken by either of the contracting 
parties, the contract is at an end. 

Yes, I suppose it is so ; I suppose 
that women are not angels, and that 
married life is an arrangement. And 
yet how much sweeter was that old- 
fashioned belief which pictured the 
wedded life as a divine communion of 
souls, a golden ladder beginning at the 
altar, and reaching through many dark 
shadows, perhaps, but surely reaching 
up to heaven ! Ah, my hymeneal Jacob's 
Ladder, with angels for ever descending 
and ascending, you have vanished from 



104 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

the world, with Noah's Dove of Peace, 
and Christ's Rainbow of Promise ! All 
faiths have gone, and the faith in Love 
is the last to go. 

I find that I am philosophizing 
prosing, in other words instead of 
setting down events as they occur. But 
indeed, there are no events to set down. 
I am in the position of the needy knife- 
grinder of the Anti-Jacobin : 

"Story? God bless you, I have none to tell, 
sir ! " 

So, to ease my mind, I pour out my 
bile on paper. 

December 21. I have made a dis- 
covery. During the last few days my 
wife and Santley have been in corre- 
spondence. At any rate, he has written 
to her ; and I suspect she has replied. 

Baptisto has been my informant. 
Despite my command that he should 



THE NOTE-BOOK AGAIN. IO5 

cease to play the spy, he has persisted 
in keeping his eyes and ears open, and 
has managed to convey to me, in one 
way or another, exactly what he has 
seen or heard. This morning, when 
hanging about the lodge (still fascinated, 
I suspect, by the little widow), he dis- 
covered that there was a letter there 
addressed to his mistress, and he asked 
me, quite innocently, if he should fetch 
and take it to her. I showed no sign 
of anger or surprise, but bade him mind 
his own business. In the forenoon, I 
saw Ellen emerge from the house, and 
stroll carelessly in the direction of the 
lodge gates. I followed her at a dis- 
tance, and saw her enter the lodge, and 
emerge directly afterwards with a letter, 
which she read hastily and thrust into 
her bosom. 

When she returned up the avenue, I 



106 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

was standing outside my den, waiting 
for her. 

She came up smiling, with her air of 
perfect innocence. Wrapped from head 
to foot in furs, and wearing the prettiest 
of fur caps a la Russe, she looked her 
very best and brightest. The sun was 
shining clearly on the snow, and, as she 
came, she left soft footprints behind her. 

" What is my Bear doing," she cried, 
" out in the cold, and without his great 
coat, too ? " 

"The day looked so bright that I 
was tempted out. Where have you 
been ? " 

" Only for a little stroll," she replied ; 
" it is so pleasant out of doors. By-the- 
bye, dear, they are skating down on 
Omberley Pond. I think I shall drive 
over. Will you come ? " 

" Not to-day, Nell." 



THE NOTE-BOOK AGAIN. 

She did not look sorry, I thought, at 
my refusal. 

"Is there a party ? " I asked care- 
lessly. 

" I don't know ; but I heard the 
Armstrongs were going, and some of 
the people from the Abbey." 

" And Mr. Santley, I suppose ? " 

She flushed slightly, but answered 
without hesitation 

" Perhaps he will be there ; but I 
need not speak to him, if you forbid it. 
1 will stay at home if you wish it, dear." 

" I don't wish it," I said. " Go and 
amuse yourself." 

" Wont you come ? " she murmured, 
hesitating. 

I shook my head, and turned back to 
my den. She looked after me, and 
sighed ; then walked slowly towards the 
house. What a sullen beast she must 



108 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

have thought me ! But I was irritated 
beyond measure by what I had seen at 
the lodge. Not a word of the letter ! 

Half an hour afterwards I saw the 
pony-carriage waiting for her, and pre- 
sently she drove off, looking (as I 
thought) bright and happy enough. No 
sooner had she gone than I was mad 
with myself for not having accompanied 
her. Was it a rendezvous? Had she 
gone, of set purpose, to meet him ? I 
cursed my stupidity, my sullenness. At 
a word from me she would have re- 
mained. I had almost made up my 
mind to walk over, when in came 
Baptisto. He was wrapped up to the 
chin in an old travelling cloak, and his 
nose was blue with cold. 

" Have you any message in the village, 
senor ? " he asked. " I am going there." 

I could not resist the temptation, 






THE NOTE-BOOK AGAIN. 

though I hated myself for setting a spy 
upon her. 

"No, I have no message. Stay, 
though ! While you are there, pass by 
the skating-pond, and see if any of our 
friends are there." 

He understood me perfectly, and went 
away, well satisfied at the commission. 
More and more, as the days go on, the 
rascal intrudes himself into my con- 
fidence, with silent looks of sympathy, 
dumb signs of devotion. He says 
nothing, but his looks are ever sig- 
nificant Sometimes I long, in my 
irritation, to get rid of him for ever ; 
but no, I may find him useful. I know 
he would go through fire and water for 
my sake. 

In about two hours he returned with 
his report. 

" Well ? " I said, scowling at him. 



110 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

" The pond is covered, senor, with 
gentlemen and ladies. His lordship is 
there, and they are very gay. It is 
pretty to see them gliding about the ice, 
the ladies and the gentlemen hand in 
hand. Sometimes the ladies slip, and 
the gentlemen catch them in their arms, 
and then all laugh ! It is a pity that 
you are not there ; you would be 
amused." 

"Is this all you have to tell me ? " 

"Yes, senor, except that my mistress 
is among them. She bade me tell 
you " 

" Yes ! yes ! " 

" That she was enjoying herself so 
much, and would not be home for lunch." 

He stood with head bent gently, 
respectful and submissive, but his face 
wore the expression which had often 
irritated me before an expression which 



THE NOTE-BOOK AGAIN. Ill 

said, as plainly as words, " How far will 
you let them go ? Cannot you perceive 
what is going on ? It is no affair of 
mine, but is it possible that you will 
endure so much and so long ? " I read 
all this, I say, in the fellow's face. 

" Very well," I said sternly, dismissing 
him with a wave of the hand. 

He went lingeringly, knowing 1 would 
be certain to call him back. As I did. 

" Was Mr. Santley there ? " 

Baptisto smiled darkly, malignantly. 

" Oh yes, senor, of 'course /" 

I could have struck him. 

Damn him ! does he think I am 
already ornamented, like Falstaff, with 
an ugly pair of horns ? I shall have to 
get rid of him, after all. He saw the 
expression on my face, and was gone in 
a moment ; but he had left his poison to 
work. 



112 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

All the devil was awake within me. 
I could not work, I could not read, I 
could not rest in any place. When the 
lunch-bell sounded, I went in, and drank 
a couple of glasses of wine, but ate 
nothing. Then for some hours I flitted 
about like a ghost, from room to room, 
from the house to the laboratory, up- 
stairs and down. I went into her 
boudoir. The rosy curtains were drawn, 
and the air was still sweet with per- 
fumes, with the very breath of her body. 
I am afraid I was mean enough to play 
the spy to open drawers, to look into 
her work-basket ; nay, I even went so 
far as to inspect her wardrobe, and 
examine the pocket of the dress she had 
worn that morning. 

I wanted that letter. 

If I could have found it, and read in 
it any confirmation of my suspicions, I 



THE NOTE-BOOK AGAIN. II 3 

would have taken instant action. But 
I could not find it. 

In the drawer of the work-table, how- 
ever, I found something. 

A sheet of paper, carefully folded up. 
I opened it, and found it covered with 
writing in a man's hand. At the top 
was written " / think these are the 
verses you wanted? I have transcribed 
them for you. C. S." The verses fol- 
lowed some twaddle about the meeting- 
in heaven of those who have lived on 
earth ; with incredible images of cherubs 
sitting on clouds (blowing their own 
trumpets, I suppose, with angelic self- 
satisfaction) ; descriptions of impossible 
habitations, with roofs of gold and silver, 
and inspired rhymes of " love " and 
" dove," " eyes " and " paradise." The 
paper was the pinkest of pinks, and 
delicately perfumed ; the writing beau- 

VOL. III. I 



114 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

tiful, with ethereal curves and upsweeps, 
exquisite punctuation, and a liberal 
supply of points of exclamation. I put 
the rubbish back in its place. It had 
obviously been lying there for some 
time, and was not at all the sort of 
document of which I was in search. 
So I quitted the boudoir, not much 
wiser than when I entered it, and re- 
sumed my uneasy ramblings about the 
house. 

About four in the afternoon, I heard 
wheels coming up the avenue. I looked 
out, and was just in time to see the 
pony-carriage pass. What was my 
amazement, however, when I beheld, 
calmly driving the carriage, with my 
wife seated at his side, the clergyman 
himself. 

My head went round, and I felt 
positively bloodthirsty. Seizing my 



THE NOTE-BOOK AGAIN. 1 15 

hat, I hastened round, and arrived just 
as Santley was carrying Ellen up the 
steps into the house. Yes, actually 
carrying her in his arms ! I could 
scarcely believe my eyes ; but, coming 
up close, I saw that she was ghastly 
pale, and that something unusual must 
have occurred. 

He had placed her on a chair in the 
lobby, and was bending over her just 
as I followed. I am afraid that the 
expression of my face was sinister and 
agitated enough ; I stood glaring at the 
two, like one gasping for breath. 

" Don't be alarmed," he said, meeting 
my eyes. " There has been a slight 
accident, that is all. Mrs. Haldane 
slipped on the ice, and, falling, sprained 
her ankle." 

Ellen, who seemed in great pain, 
looked up at me with a beseeching 



Il6 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

expression ; for she at least read my 
suspicion in my face. 

" It was so stupid of me ! " she mur- 
mured, forcing a faint smile, and reaching 
out her hand. " I could not come home 
alone I was in such pain and Mr, 
Santley kindly volunteered to bring 
me." 

What could I do ? I could not knock 
a man down for having performed what 
appeared a simple act of courtesy. I 
could not exhibit any anger, without 
looking like an idiot or a boor. Santley 
had merely done what any other gentle- 
man would have done under the circum- 
stances. For all that, I had an uneasy 
sense of being humbugged. 

" Let me look at your foot," I said 
gruffly. 

She pushed it from underneath her 
dress. The boot had been taken off, 




THE NOTE-BOOK AGAIN. 1 1 7 

and a white silk handkerchief tightly 
wrapped about the ankle. 

" Mr. Santley bound it up," she ex- 
plained. 

I took the foot in my hand, and in 
my secret fury, I think I was a little 
rough, for she uttered a cry. 

" Take care ! " cried the clergyman. 
" It is very tender." 

I looked up at him with a scowl, but 
said nothing. 

" Shall I carry you into the drawing- 
room ? " he said, with tender solicitude. 

" No ; I am better now, and George 
will give me his arm. Pray do not 
stay." 

She rose with difficulty, and, resting 
all her weight upon her left foot, leant 
upon me. In this manner she managed 
to limp into the drawing-room, and to 
place herself upon a couch. Her pallor 



Il FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

still continued, and I felt sorry, for I 
hate to see a woman suffer. Santley, 
who had followed us, and was watching 
her with extraordinary sympathy, now 
bent softly over her. 

" Are you still in pain ? " he mur- 
mured. 

" A little ; but 

" Shall I send Doctor Spruce over ? 
I shall be passing the surgery on my 
way back. If he is not at home, I will 
procure some remedies, and bring them 
on myself." 

Here I interposed. 

" Pray do not trouble yourself," I said, 
with a sneer. "A sprained ankle is a 
trifle, and I can attend to it. Unless 
my wife is in need of religious ministra- 
tion, you need not remain." 

I spoke brutally, as I felt ; and, meet- 
ing the man's pale, sad, astonished gaze, 






THE NOTE-BOOK AGAIN. 1 19 

I became secretly humiliated. A hus- 
band, I perceive, is a ridiculous animal, 
and always at a disadvantage. I begin 
to understand how the poets, from 
Moliere downwards, have made married 
men their shuttlecocks. A jealous lover 
has dignity ; a jealous husband, none. 
Nobody sympathizes with my lord of 
Rimini, while all the world weeps for 
Lancelot and Francesca. Even Ford, 
ere he turns the tables on Sir John, 
poses as an ass. All the right was on 
my side, all the offended dignity, all the 
outraged honesty ; yet somehow I felt, at 
that moment, like an ill-conditioned cur. 

" I am not here in a religious capacity," 
he replied courteously, " so your sneer is 
hardly fair. However, since I can be of 
no further service, I will go." 

He turned softly to Ellen, holding out 
his hand. 



120 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

" Good-bye. I hope you will be 
better to-morrow." 

" Good-bye, and thank you," she re- 
plied. "It was so good of you to bring 
me home." 

And so, with a courteous bow to me, 
which I returned with a nod, he retired 
victoriously. Yes, he had the best of 
it for the time being. 'For some minutes 
after he left, and while the scent of his 
perfumed handkerchief still filled the 
air, I stood moodily waiting. At last 
Ellen spoke. 

" I hope you are not angry. What 
could I do ? I could not come home in 
such pain, and no one else offered to 
escort me." 

" I did not ask you to . excuse your- 
self," I said coldly. 

I saw the tears standing in her eyes. 
Her voice trembled as she murmured 



THE NOTE-BOOK AGAIN. 121 

" I did not think you could have been 
so unkind ! " 

As I did not answer, she continued 

" Of late you have not been like your- 
self. You used to trust me; we used 
to be so happy ! If this is to go on, we 
had better separate ; it makes my life a 
misery." 

She had touched the wrong chord, if 
she thought to move my pity. My 
jealous brain was at work at once. She 
was thinking of a separation, then ? 
Perhaps she wished it ; and perhaps 
the true reason was her love for that 
man ? 

I spoke out in the heat of the 
moment 

"If you wish to separate, it can be 
arranged." 

She looked at me so pleadingly, so 
piteously, that I had to turn my eyes 



122 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

away. In encounters of this kind the 
man has no chance against the woman r 
especially if he is magnanimous. What 
are all his arguments, all his indignation, 
against her battery of woeful looks, her 
tears, her pseudo-innocence, and real 
helplessness ? One feels like a coward, 
too, in such an encounter. I did, I 
know. 

Nevertheless, I was ready to give her 
the coup de grace. 

" Show me that letter," I said suddenly. 

" What letter ? " she asked, as if she 
did not comprehend. 

" The letter you received from that 
man this morning." 

For a moment her cheeks went scarlet, 
then became deadly pale again. 

" Pray do not attempt any subter- 
fuge," I continued. " I know that you 
have been in correspondence. Where 



THE NOTE-BOOK AGAIN. 123 

is that last letter ? I demand to 
see it." 

She replied without hesitation. 

"You cannot see it." 

" Why ? " 

" Because I have burned it." 

At this admission I lost my self- 
command, and uttered an execration. 

" There was nothing in it," she said 
sorrowfully ; " it was a mere request for 
an interview. You have no right to be 
so violent." 

" No right, woman ! " I cried. 

" There is nothing between us to- 
make me ashamed. If I were the most 
guilty woman in the world, you could 
not treat me more cruelly. You have 
no pity, none. It is my fault, my 
punishment, to have married a man 
without sympathy, without religion." 

Religion again ! How I hated the 



124 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

word ! It stung me into retorting 
fiercely 

" It is my misfortune, rather, to have 
married a sentimental hypocrite ! " 

I had gone too far. Her proud spirit 
rose against me. Pale and indignant, she 
tried to rise to her feet. But she had 
forgotten her sprained ankle. Her face 
was contracted with sudden torture, and, 
with a low cry of pain, she fainted away 
upon the floor. 

December 23. In two more days the 
Christmas bells will ring, with their 
merry tidings of peace, good will, and 
plum-pudding to all the world. Well, 
mine is likely to be a cheerful Christmas 
Day. The snow is still on the ground, 
and more is falling ; and outside the 
Manor, as I write, the dreariest of 
dreary winds is wailing. Here, inside, 
there is even greater gloom. A cheer- 






THE NOTE-BOOK AGAIN. 125 

less hearth, a husband and wife estranged. 
Bah ! the old story. 

Things have come to a crisis at last 
between us. I know now that I must 
either strike a cruel blow, or lose my 
wife for ever. Any mere armistice is 
impossible. Either I must assault my 
enemy's camp, get him by the throat, 
and cover him with punishment and 
confusion ; or haul down my matrimonial 
flag, capitulate, and let the Church and 
the devil come in to take possession. 



126 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 



CHAPTER XXXIV. 

BAITING A MOUSE-TRAP (FROM THE NOTE- 
BOOK). 

LET me write down, as calmly as I can, 
exactly what has taken place. 

Yesterday, after that little scene, I 
carried my swooning wife up to her 
room, placed her on the bed, and sent 
her maid to attend to her. Then I 
walked off to my den, to have my dark 
hour alone ; for I was thoroughly 
miserable. So far, I felt, I had been 
beaten with -my own weapons. Ellen 
was going to pose as a Christian martyr, 
and I had committed the indiscretion of 



BAITING A MOUSE-TRAP. 1 27 

showing the full extent of my jealousy. 
It would have been far better, on the 
whole, if, instead of storming and 
grumbling, I had quietly kicked the 
clergyman out of my house ; but then, 
I could hardly deal in that way with a 
man who had simply, on the face of it, 
performed an act of common civility. 
The time for kicking had gone past ; I 
had stupidly let it slip. If, when I 
caught him in the act of trying to 
embrace my Ellen, and of addressing 
her softly by her Christian name, I had 
calmly and decisively thrashed him, he 
could hardly have accused me of im- 
politeness ; nor would he have been 
able, without exposing his own fatuity, 
to noise the affair about. 

Now, I was not only angry with my 
wife for her indiscretion, I was in a 
rage with myself for having behaved 



128 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

with so much brutality. The picture of 
her pale, suffering face followed me to 
my den, and haunted me reproachfully. 
She had really met with an accident, 
and was in sharp physical pain ; and I, 
who at another time would have cut off 
my right hand to prevent her little finger 
from aching, had chosen the time of her 
suffering to come upon her like a 
woman-eating tiger. Just the husband's 
luck again always at a disadvantage ; 
for precisely to the degree in which she 
felt herself treated unkindly and ungently 
by me, would rise her sympathy for the 
man who had been so zealous and so 
tender. Damn him, again ! 

The night passed wretchedly enough. 
I sat up working till nearly daybreak. 
When I went upstairs, and entered my 
dressing-room, I felt guilty and ashamed, 
yet angry still. But she was asleep I 






BAITING A MOUSE-TRAP. 129 

could hear her soft breathing from the 
adjoining bedchamber. Lamp in hand, 
I crept in. Yes, there she lay, soundly 
slumbering, her eyes red with weeping, 
her dark hair falling wildly around her 
pallid face, her neck and throat bare, her 
arms outside the coverlid, which rose 
and fell with her breathing. As I bent 
over her, my shadow crossed her soul in 
sleep, and she moaned and stirred. Poor 
child ! I longed to kiss her, but I was 

& 

ashamed 

I think we men, the strongest and 
coldest of us even, are weak as water, 
where a woman is concerned. I used 
to fancy once that, if a wife of mine 
failed in faith, or fell away from me in 
sin, I could strike her dead without pity ; 
or if I suffered her to live, pass an 
eternity with no thought but loathing 
and detestation. But as I bent over 

VOL. in. K. 



J 3 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

that sad bed, I seemed to understand 
how it was that husbands, in the fulness 
of time, had pardoned even that, the 
foulest and deadliest of infidelities ; how, 
with a love stronger than sin, and a 
hope stronger than death, they had 
welcomed back the penitent, in forgive- 
ness, sorrow, and despair even as a 
father would take back an erring child, 
part of the very blood and life within 
his veins. Weakness, I know ; but weak 
as water, in virtue of its very strength, 
is Love. 

It was horrible, horrible, this falling 
away from each other. I wished, just 
then, that I had had religion ; perhaps 
then we might have been happier to- 
gether. Women love a sort of matri- 
monial Village Blacksmith, who asks no 
questions, works hard all the week, and 
goes three times to church, in an irre- 



BAITING A MOUSE-TRAP. I3 1 

proachably white shirt, on Sunday. 
They cannot bear revolt in any shape. 
They were the last to cling to the old 
gods, and they will be last to cling to 
the dead Christ. Does the law which 
works for righteousness, somehow or 
other, justify them ? Was my dear 
wife's alienation a curse upon me for 
dealing in occult scientific mysteries, like 
an old necromancer, and forgetting, if I 
ever learned, the sweet religion of the 
heart ? Somehow, last night, I felt as if 
it were so. There she lay, white as 
snow. I knew she had prayed to God 
before sleeping ; and I I could not 
pray. I was an outcast, an unbeliever ; 
" atheist ! atheist ! " said the preacher. 
I crept away to my own solitary bed, 
feeling more sad and lonely than I had 
ever done in all my life. 

Till midday to-day, she kept her 



I3 2 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

room ; but after lunch, she managed to 
get downstairs. I had returned to my 
den, and we did not meet ; nor was I in 
the mood for meeting, for the gentle 
impulses of overnight had passed away, 
and the morning had found me gloomy, 
quarrelsome, and atrabilious. She did 
not send for me, though I secretly hoped 
that she might do so. I learned from 
Baptisto that she was stretched upon the 
drawing-room sofa, which was drawn 
close to the window, and was reading- 
some religious book. 

Restless and wretched, I took my hat 
and walked out into the snow. The 
great fir trees, loaded with the leaden 
whiteness, were ranged like grim sentinels 
on each side of the dreary avenue, and 
beyond these the leafless woods stretched 
white and cold. The sun had gone in, 
and the air was full of a heavy lower- 



BAITING A MOUSE-TRAP. I 33 

ing sadness a sort of darkness visible. 
It was cheerless weather ; and as I 
thought of my domestic misery, and of 
the clouded world, with all its sins and 
sorrows, I was more miserable than 
ever. 

Nevertheless, I walked on rapidly, till 
I came out among the frozen fields of 
the open country. How desolate looked 
the snowy meadows, with broad patches 
of green, thaw-like mildew, and the 
fallow fields, with snow thick in the 
furrows and wretched low-lying hedges 
on every side ! Here and there a few 
miserable small birds were fluttering, 
starved robins for the most part ; and a 
kestrel was hunting the furrow, hovering 
in a slow, dejected way, as if field-mice 
were scarce, and his whole occupation, 
like the weather, cruelly forlorn. 

Before four o'clock it was quite dark. 



134 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

Through the windy darkness I made 
my way back to the Manor. By that 
time I had thought it all over. Con- 
quered by the utter desolation within 
and without me, I had said to myself, 
" Life like this is worse than death. I 
will try one way more ; I will go to her, 
I will take her to my heart, I will beg 
her to love and trust me, and to accept 
my tender forgiveness. Perhaps I have 
been too hard, too taciturn and sullen. 
She has mistaken my sorrow for cold- 
ness, my pride for cruelty and pertinacity. 
There shall be an end to this. She 
shall understand the full tenderness of 
my love, once and for ever." With these 
thoughts struggling wildly within me, I 
hastened home. 

Then, as the devil would have it, I 
saw Baptisto, waiting on the threshold 
of my den. The moment I appeared 



BAITING A MOUSE-TRAP. 135 

he crept up to me, and clutched my 
arm. 

" Senor, sefior ! where have you been ? 
I have been waiting for you." 

" What is it, man ? " I asked, startled 
by his manner. 

" Come and see ! " 

He led me towards the house. I 
walked a few steps, then paused ner- 
vously. 

" What has happened ? " I asked. 

" Nothing, sefior ; but the clergyman 
is here again, with my lady." 

That was enough. It turned my 
tenderness into anger, my lethargy into 
passion. Shaking off the fellow's touch, 
I hastened to the house. As I went I 
saw lights in the drawing-room ; and, 
instead of entering the house door, I 
ascended the flight of iron steps which 
leads to the terrace. Then, with the 



I3 6 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

cunning of jealousy, cold enough to 
subdue the fever of rage, I crept along 
the terrace till I reached the folding 
doors of the drawing-room. The doors 
were closed, the curtains and blinds were 
drawn, but there was one small space 
through which I could see into the 
room. 

I looked in. 

For a moment my eyes, clouded by 
the darkness, were dazzled by the light 
of the room within ; but despite the loud 
crying of the wind around me, I heard a 
murmur of voices. Then I distinguished 
the form of my wife on a sofa drawn up 
before the fire, and, bending over her, the 
form of the minister. Her back was 
turned to me, but I saw his face, noticed 
the burning eyes fixed eagerly on 
hers. 

What were they saying doing ? I 






BAITING A MOUSE-TRAP. 137 

strained my eyes, my ears. At last I 
caught a sound. 

"Go now!" she was saying; "go 
now, I beseech you ! " 

Even as she spoke, he flung himself 
wildly on his knees, placing his arms 
around her. 

" Oh, you are mad, mad ! " she cried. 

" Not mad, but desperate," he an- 
swered. " I have thought it all over ; 
I have struggled and struggled, but it 
is in vain. Ellen, have pity ! There 
is no peace or happiness for me, in this 
world or the next, without your love. 
My darling ! my angel ! " 

" Silence, for God's sake ! Oh, if you 

should be heard " 

. " I do not care who hears me. I am 
beyond fear. As for that man, your 
husband, he is busy, no doubt, with his 
blasphemous books, his sinful investiga- 



I3*> FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

tions. Oh, my darling, that you should 
be linked to such a man ! A man 
without religion a man without God ! 
It was that which first made me pity 
you, and pity is akin to love. You owe 
him no duty. He is a heretic an 
atheist, as you know." 

As he clung to her and embraced 
her, she struggled nervously. Carried 
beyond himself, he covered her hands- 
with kisses, and would have kissed her 
lips, but she drew back. 

" Go, go ! " she moaned. " Hark ! I 
hear footsteps. If you do not go now r 
I will never speak to you again." 

He rose to his feet, hot, flushed, and 
trembling like a leaf. 

" I will go, since you wish it," he said. 
" Good night, my darling ! " 

He stooped over, and kissed her ? 
Yes, I was sure he kissed her, though 



BAITING A MOUSE-TRAP. 1 39 

I think she shrunk away, with her face 
nervously turned to the door, dreading- 
a surprise. Then I saw his shadow 
cross the room, and vanish through the 
door, which was closed behind him. 

I was about to force open the French 
windows and enter, when a curious 
impulse possessed me to delay a little,, 
and see what she would do when left 
alone. So I watched her. She sat 
trembling on her seat ; then, reaching 
to the table, took a flask of eau-de- 
cologne, poured some upon her hand- 
kerchief, and bathed her face. Then, 
with momentary glances at the door, 
she smoothed down her straggling hair, 
and adjusted the bosom of her dress. 
Finally, she contrived, though not with- 
out pain, to rise to her feet, and, leaning 
on the marble mantelpiece, to look at 
her face in the mirror. I could see her 



140 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

face reflected, all flushed and warm, and 
her eyes gleaming with unusual bright- 
ness. After again smoothing her hair, 
she got back to the sofa, posed herself 
prettily, and, not without another glance 
at the door, took up a book and pre- 
tended to read. 

By this time I was diabolically cool ; 
so cool that I could have killed her 
just then in cold blood. Entering into 
the spirit of her hypocrisy, I refrained 
from entering by the terrace, but, passing 
round to the hall door, entered there. 
A few minutes afterwards, I entered 
the drawing-room, with as unconcerned 
an air as I could possibly command. 

There she sat, quite calm and self- 
possessed, her robe arranged decently 
over her feet, her face pale, her hair 
smoothed down Madonna-like over her 
temples, her eyes fixed upon a book. 



BAITING A MOUSE-TRAP. 

As I entered, she looked up with a 
sweet smile, just as if there had never 
been any quarrel between us. 

" Well, dear ? You see, I have got 
down." 

I nodded, and sank into a chair. 

"You don't ask me if my ankle is 
better ? Well, it is nearly all right. 
But, George, I hope you are not angry 
with me still for what occurred yester- 
day. Do forgive me, dear ! " 

" Oh, I'm not angry," I replied ; 
" only 

" Only we both lost our tempers ; I 
with my stupid sprained ankle, you with 
your stupid books. I was so sorry you 
let Mr. Santley see you were annoyed. 
He must have thought it so odd." 

How light and free of heart she 
seemed ! how bright and languishing 
her eyes were ! She could laugh, too, 



142 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

and she was not much given to laughter. 
I looked at her with amazement, so 
little did I, or do I, understand women. 
There seemed to be an ugliness, a 
guiltiness, about her tender coquetry 
that evening, coming so close upon what 
I had seen. 

" By the way," she continued, after 
a few minutes' pause, " I hope you will 
not scold me again, but I think I ought 
to tell you that Mr. Santley has just 
called. There, now you are angry ; but 
I thought it right to tell you." 

" Thank you," I said drily. " I was 
aware that he had called. What brought 
him, pray ? " 

"He wished to ascertain if I had 
recovered from the effects of my fall," 
she replied, with a little more nervous- 
ness than before. 

" Oh, a mere visit of politeness ! " 



BAITING A MOUSE-TRAP. 1 43 

" Yes," she answered, faltering. 

I rose quietly, and stood on the 
hearthrug, looking down upon her. 

''Would it surprise you to hear," I 
asked grimly, " that I know exactly 
what took place between you ? " 

Her face flushed scarlet, the book fell 
from her hands. 

" Oh, George ! what do you mean ? " 
she murmured somewhat irrelevantly. 

" Precisely what I say. He made hot 
love to you embraced you kissed you, 
madam. He informed you that your 
husband was a heretic, a'nd that to make 
him a cuckold would be a certain way of 
getting an express pass right through to 
paradise. Very polite indeed, you will 
agree ! " 

She saw that I knew everything, and 
wrung her hands in protestation and 
despair. 



144 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

11 George, if you know so much and 
some one has been playing the spy 
you know that it was all against my will ; 
you know that I tried to silence him, 
to thrust him from me, but, being ill 
and helpless, sick, and in pain- 
Here her self-pity, coming sharp upon 
her consternation, quite conquered her,, 
and she fell into hysterical tears. 
" O God ! God ! " she sobbed. 
What kaleidoscopes are women ! 
From light to shade, from brightness to 
dimness, and back again to brightness ; 
from one colour to another, from the 
tints of the thunder-cloud to the hues of 
the rainbow, how suddenly they can flit 
and change ! Ellen, who had just before 
been so gay and smiling, seemed now 
liked a broken woman. I watched her 
gloomily, almost despairingly. I knew 
that ten minutes afterwards, she might 



BAITING A MOUSE-TRAP. 145 

change again, scattering away her tears as 
the sunshine scatters the drops of dew. 

Midnight. I have just left my wife's 
bedside. Ellen has promised me, if I 
spare the man and avoid any scandal, 
that she will never speak to him again, 
or even enter his church. Can I trust 
her ? I believe not. However, we 
shall see. 

Christmas Eve. My mind is now 
made up. To-day I intercepted a letter 
from Santley to Ellen, left as usual at 
the lodge gate. It ran as follows : 

" To-morrow is Christmas Day, and I 
have not a moment to spare. I will call, 
however, next day, on the business about 
luhtch we spoke yesterday. Pray for me 
till then, as I pray for you. C. S." 

The italics are the satyr's own. 
VOL. in. i. 



146 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

This letter, then, has decided me. My 
scheme of revenge is now perfectly com- 
plete, and I shall no longer hesitate to 
carry it out. To make all certain, I 
shall send a verbal message by Baptisto 
to-morrow to the effect that Mrs. Hal- 
dane " will be glad to see Mr. Santley 
as arranged, the day after Christmas 
Day." In the mean time I shall make 
my preparations. All the servants but 
two have been given a holiday for that 
day I have taken care of that ; and as 
they purpose going into the neighbouring 
town, they will not return till very late. 
The two remaining are the kitchen- 
maid, who is an idiot and notices nothing ; 
and Baptisto, who is for once to combine 
two functions that of cook (he cooks 
like an angel) and waiter at table. Ellen 
is quite satisfied with this arrangement. 
She knows nothing of Santley 's letter. 



BAITING A MOUSE-TRAP. 1 47 

We see little or nothing of each other, 
and a shadow as of death hangs over 
the entire house. 

Christmas Day. I astonished Ellen 
very much this morning, by expressing 
my intention of accompanying her to 
church ; but, instead of rejoicing, as she 
would have done a little time ago, she 
seemed rather frightened and startled. 
We drove over to the old church at 
Hamleigh, seven miles off, and heard 
a drowsy sermon by the drowsiest of 
octogenarians the right sort of preacher, 
in my opinion, for a creed so worn out, 
mildewy, and old-fashioned. Ellen did 
not seem to share my appreciation of the 
old fellow's antiquated twaddle. She sat 
like a marble woman. We drove home 
without a word. 

A pretty Christmas ! But, never 
mind, I am going to have my revenge. 



148 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

Everything lends itself to my purpose. 
To begin with, Foxglove Manor is miles 
away from any other habitation ; and no 
one ever conies near the " uncanny " 
place, except on special business. All 
the servants, but the idiot of a kitchen- 
maid, leave early for their holiday. For 
a day at least I can do as I please ; and 
my intentions are simply murderous. 
In the course of twelve hours a human 
creature may be disposed of, and buried 
out of sight, if necessary, in these 
grounds. Baptisto knows my terrible 
purpose, and approves it, with his usual 
bloodthirstiness, to the full. 

" To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to- 
morrow ! " Come, then, my satyr, my 
wolf in sheep's clothing, and I shall be 
ready for you 

" And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 
The way to dusty Death ! " 



( 149 ) 



CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE ASSIGNATIpN. 

ON the morning after Christmas Day, 
1 8 , the Rev. Charles Santley, vicar of 
Omberley, rose early from that sweet 
slumber which only the righteous enjoy, 
and from those nightly visions of 
celestial bliss which only the pure of 
heart are suffered to behold. Although, 
infant-like, he had been " talking with 
angels in his sleep " all night, he looked 
pale, careworn, and anxious. He dressed 
himself with unusual care, surveyed 
himself again and again in the mirror, 
sighed softly, and descended to the 
sitting-room, where his sister was 



15 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

already awaiting him at the breakfast- 
table. 

To his surprise, she looked unusually 
agitated, and addressed him eagerly the 
moment he appeared. 

" I am so glad you are come down. 
Rachel has just been here from the 
cottage, where they are in a terrible 
state of alarm." 

Rachel was the name of Miss Russell's 
maidservant. 

" But what is the matter ? " 

" Edith went out early yesterday 
evening, and she has not returned. 
They cannot guess what has become of 
her. Oh, Charles, go over at once ! If 
anything has happened to her ! " 

The clergyman listened in no little 
agitation. 

" Did she leave no message ? " he 
asked. 



THE ASSIGNATION. I 5 \ 

" None. She is such a strange girl ; 
and lately, I am afraid, she has been, 
unhappy. I am going down to the 
station to make inquiries, and they 
fancy she may have taken the train to 
London." 

" It is very strange ! " 

"Strange ? It is horrible ! Oh, Charles, 
she has never been quite the same since 
her cousin came down here visiting. I 
thought that you were her choice, and I 
hoped you would some day marry her ; 
but since young Hetherington was 
here " 

Santley, who had broken a little bread 
and drunk a cup of tea, rose impatiently. 

" You women think of nothing but 
marrying and giving in marriage," he 
said. " Well, I will go over and speak 
to Miss Russell. I cannot think that any 
harm has happened to Edith." 



I5 2 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

" I hope and pray not. But to be 
away all night it is unaccountable." 

" Perhaps," suggested Santley, more 
troubled than he cared to show, " she 
has gone to London." 

" But why go without a word ? " 

" I really cannot tell. Young ladies- 
take strange fancies ; and if, as you 
suggest, " there is anything between 
young Hetherington and herself 

" I did not suggest anything of the 
kind." 

" Excuse me, Mary, you did." 

" I am sure she cares ' nothing for her 
cousin," returned Miss Santley. 

Her brother shrugged his shoulders, 
and, putting on his hat and overcoat, 
walked out of the Vicarage. On reach- 
ing the open air, where all looked dark 
and cold, he trembled like a leaf. What 
could it mean ? What last freak had 



THE ASSIGNATION. 153 

come over the infatuated girl ? Could 
it be possible that she had carried out 
her wild threat to leave the place, and 
take her secret with her perhaps to 
some nameless grave ? He remembere 
their last conversation, when she had 
first told him of her condition, and 
beseeched him at once to make her his 
wife. He remembered how wild she 
had seemed, how despairing, and of how 
little avail, to calm her, his words had 
been. If any harm had come to her, 
the evil lay at his door. It was horrible 
to think of! Although another woman 
had come between them, although he no 
longer loved her with that wild frenzy 
which had first urged him to evil, he 
had still a conscience, and he could not 
bear to think that any harm had come 
to her. Then, again, he shuddered at 
the thought of any exposure. He had 



154 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

meant to marry her, sooner or later ; and 
he had already made arrangements to 
hide from the world any knowledge of 
her condition. She was to have gone 
away to a secret place ; and then, when 
lier travail was over, he had meant to 
act honourably by her. And now, by 
some act of madness, she had perhaps 
put it out of his power ! Surely, if she 
had gone away in accordance with the 
plan they had made together, she would 
have sent him some intimation of her pur- 
posed It was extraordinary, altogether. 
On reaching the cottage, he found 
Miss Russell in violent grief, and quite 
bewildered what to do. He tried to 
console her, pointing out that perhaps 
some little lover's quarrel with her 
cousin had taken her niece up to town ; 
and the old lady listened eagerly, hoping 
.against hope. 



THE ASSIGNATION. 155 

" Of late she has been so strange," 
sobbed the old lady, " so unlike herself. 
Often, listening at her door o' nights, 
I have heard her crying as if her heart 
was like to break ; and she would never 
tell me what was the matter. Do you 
think do you really think, sir, it was 
her cousin Walter ? " 

" I am almost certain of it," said 
the good shepherd. " Did they corre- 
spond ? " 

" I think so sometimes ; but latterly 
they were estranged. Oh dear ! Oh 
dear ! " 

" Depend upon it, she has gone to 
London to see him. You will no doubt 
have a letter from her in the course of 
the day. Keep up your spirits ! Miss 
Dove is a good young lady, and I am 
sure God will protect her. Is there 
anything more that I can do for you ? " 



IS FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

" It was so kind of you to come," said 
the poor soul. " Your words are indeed 
a comfort." 

" I am glad to hear you say so. Your 
dear niece was always a favourite of 
mine." 

" Oh, sir, I know that ; and sometimes 
I thought But there, it's no time 
to talk of that now. If she had only 
gone to you for advice, you would have 
guided her for her good, and this would 
never have happened. She was always 
pious-minded, but latterly, I'm afraid, 
she didn't go to church as often as she 
ought." 

" Don't say that, Miss Russell. She 
was most regular in her religious duties 
a pattern, indeed, to all my flock. 
There, there ! I feel satisfied there is 
no cause for alarm. I will go myself 
and make every inquiry." 



THE ASSIGNATION. I 57 

" Oh, sir, you are an angel ! " cried 
the old lady, looking at him in admira- 
tion. And she really meant what she 
said. 

" Alas ! no," he answered, shaking his 
head solemnly " only a poor miserable 
sinner. We are all miserable sinners. 
Good morning. Put your trust in God." 

" I do indeed, sir. But, sir, before 
you go, may I ask you a favour ? " 

" Certainly." 

" If you would kindly kneel down with 
me a moment, and say 'a prayer for my 
poor girl, I think it might help to bring 
her back. The Lord hears the prayers 
of the righteous, Mr. Santley." 

Thus entreated, Santley could not 
refuse. To do him justice, he felt no 
little moral nausea at the proposal ; but 
he was helpless under the circumstances. 
So they knelt down in the parlour 



15 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

together, and the good man extempo- 
rized a short but eloquent prayer for the 
occasion, entreating the Lord to bring 
back the stray lamb to the fold, and 
beseeching a blessing then and for ever 
on all that house. Miss Russell wept 
profusely. His words were so beautiful,, 
his voice so musical, his manner so 
seraphic. At last he rose to his feet:, 
looking pale and almost scared at a 
proceeding which (to his own conscience) 
looked something like blasphemy ; and 
then, amidst profuse blessings from the 
distracted old lady, he respectfully took 
his leave. 

While on his way to make inquiries 
in the village, he met his sister returning. 
She had discovered nothing, save that 
several persons had gone on to London 
by the midnight train the previous night, 
and that one of them was a lady who 



THE ASSIGNATION. 



'59 



might have been Miss Dove. There 
was nothing for it but to wait out the 
day, and see if any communication came. 
In the mean time Miss Santley said she 
would hasten up to the cottage, to 
condole and consult with Mrs. Dove. 

" Shall you be in to lunch ? " she asked, 
as they parted on the roadside. 

" No ; not till evening. I think I 
shall walk over to Lewstone, to see about 
some books. I will make inquiries on 
the way, in case Edith has gone in that 
direction." 

Lewstone was a small county town, 
seven miles off, where there was a 
library, a newspaper, and a great 
brewery. The way to it lay past Fox- 
glove Manor. Santley did not care to 
tell his sister that he had an appoint- 
ment with Mrs. Haldane for that 
morning. He knew that Miss Santley 



160 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

regarded with some anxiety her brothers 
relations with the handsome lady of the 
Manor. Much as she admired him, and 
great as was her faith in his spiritual 
purity, she knew him sufficiently well 
to be aware that his weak point was his 
admiration for beauty in the opposite 
sex. Not for a moment did she dream 
indeed, she would have supposed the 
idea as almost blasphemous that that 
admiration was not perfectly harmless 
and honourable ; but it led him, she 
thought, to take delight in feminine 
society generally, and to overlook the 
attractions of the woman she wanted 
him to marry. He would marry some 
day it was inevitable ; and she had 
made up her mind that he was to marry 
Edith, who was her friend, and would 
doubtless allow her to keep her place at 
the Vicarage, whereas another woman 



THE ASSIGNATION. l6l 

a stranger, might take possession of him 
and resent all sisterly interference. 

" Shall you call at the Manor as you 
pass ? " she inquired. 

" I think so ; I am not quite sure." 

" Perhaps it will be better," she said, 
thoughtfully. " They may know some- 
thing about Edith." 

The sun was now high up in the 
heavens, but deeply veiled in wintry 
cloud. It was a dark, dismal day 
darkness in the sky and whiteness on 
the ground. The road which led to 
the Manor was unusually cheerless and 
dismal, and few people were abroad. 
Before long Santley came into the 
shadow of the Manor woods, which 
skirted one side of the highway for 
several miles. It was a gloomy walk. 

Nevertheless, Santley soon forgot his 
anxiety, in the prospect of a meeting 

VOL. III. M 



1 62 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

with Ellen Haldane. He had been 
greatly troubled the previous Christmas 
Day, by the fact that she had not put in 
an appearance at church ; but her mes- 
sage, making the appointment, which had 
been duly conveyed to him by Baptisto 
had filled him with eager expectation. 
It was the first time she had actually 
desired him to come to her, and his 
hopes rose high. Perhaps his devotion 
had at last moved her heart ; perhaps 
she had at last discovered that true 
happiness was only to be found, not 
with her heretic husband, but with the 
man whom she had loved when a girl. 
In the eyes of the world, there might 
be wickedness in tempting her from her 
wifely duty ; but surely, in the eyes of 
heaven, there was no great sin. By 
living on with an unbeliever, she was 
in danger of losing her soul alive. The 



THE ASSIGNA TION. 1 63 

man was admittedly an atheist, an enemy 
of the Church, and she was wretched 
in his society, without sympathy, with- 
out conservation, without religion. And 
on one point the clergyman's mind was 
now made up. If Ellen was willing, 
he would take her with him to some 
foreign land, where he might labour in 
some way useful to the Lord, and forget 
all the petty humiliations of an English 
village. There might be, there would 
be, a scandal ; but what need they care, 
when they were far away ? In any case, 
scandal was likely to come, now that 
Edith Dove was in so sad a predicament 
No ; after all, he would not marry 
Edith. She was a foolish girl, and 
would soon find a more suitable hus- 
band ; and whether or not, he had long 
ago discovered that they were not at all 
suited to each other. 



1 64 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

Thus musing, Santley drew nearer 
and nearer to the Manor gates. 

From the glimpse we have given of 
his thoughts, it may be gathered that 
the man's moral deterioration was at last 
complete. What had been at first a 
mere religious amorousness, a soft sen- 
suous delight in female sympathy and 
female beauty, much the same as that 
which filled him when the organ played^ 
and the scented incense rose, and the 
dainty congregation fluttered and flushed 
beneath him, had gradually developed,, 
through self-indulgence, into a deter- 
mined and uncontrollable sensuality. 
The devil, with a bait of warm naked- 
ness, had hooked him fast. And 
already, in his own heart, he knew that 
he was lost ; and so long as he reached 
the summit of his desires, he did not 
care. One sign of his degeneration was 



THE ASSIGNATION. I5 

unmistakable : he had lost for ever his 
old faith in the chastity and purity of 
women. He could remember the time, 
not long past, when a beautiful woman 
was to him a spiritual thing, something 
sanctified, to be approached with awe 
such as fills the worshipper who gazes 
on the Madonna of some great painter. 
Now he often found himself gazing on 
the Madonnas in his own study, with 
a satyr's delight in their plumpness, 
their naked arms, their swelling breasts. 
His nature was subdued to what it 
worked in, like the dyer's hand. His 
easy conquest over Edith Dove, whose 
sin was in loving so madly and so 
much, had degraded his whole nature. 
Once having snapped the chain of con- 
ventional morality, which is the only 
band to bind such men as this, he was 
reckless and exultant ; and to possess 



1 66 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

Ellen Haldane, in her superb beauty 
and glowing womanhood, was his daily 
thought and his nightly dream. 

This is speaking plainly, but it is a 
simple statement of the fact. As for 
the ultimate consequence of his acts, he 
was quite unable to realize them, having 
lost the power of reason and self-control. 

He approached the lodge. How cold 
and chill it looked, in the darkness of 
the overhanging, snow-clad boughs ! He 
put on his stereotyped smile, expecting 
to see little Mrs. Feme step out, as was 
her custom, and drop him a country 
curtsey. But the lodge seemed empty 
that morning. 

He passed through the side gate, 
which was unfastened, and stepped into 
the avenue the long, dreary colonade 
of trees, a mile long, winding up to the 
steps of the Manor house. Glancing 






THE ASSIGNATION. 



I6 7 



up it, he fancied he saw in the distance 
the figure of a man, looking his way ; 
but in another moment it was gone. 

Bleak, lonely, and inexpressibly dis- 
mal looked the avenue, with its white 
road of snow between the dark trees, 
and the one dark figure of the clergy- 
man slowly advancing. The gloom of 
the place seemed to settle upon his 
spirit, and to dispel it he quickened his 
footsteps. 

Suddenly, he heard from the distance 
a low, deep sound, like the tolling of a 
church bell. 

He started, listening, and at first he 
could not believe the evidence of his 
ears. There was no church near, and 
the sound seemed unaccountable and 
strangely ominous. After a pause, slow 
as the drawing of a deep, long breath, it 
was repeated. 



1 68 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

Toll ! toll ! 

Santley was by nature a superstitious 
man, and, though no coward, he was ter- 
rified. What could it mean ? It was 
like a funeral bell, tolling for the dead. 
Listening attentively, he found that the 
sound came down the avenue, and that 
at every step he took it was more plainly 
heard. He hastened on, with increasing 
wonder and alarm. 
Toll ! toll ! toll ! 

Yes, there could be no mistake it 
was the tolling of a bell. Hollow and 
faint, yet filling the dark silence, it fell 
upon the wintry air. There was no 
stir in the shrouded woods, which closed 
dismally on every side ; no answer from 
the dull, leaden, brooding sky only the 
dull, dreadful, dreary peal, like a chime 
from the very gates of the tomb. 
It was horrible. 



THE ASSIGNA TION. 1 69 

He advanced, coming ever nearer to 
the sound, and at last, to his amazement, 
he discovered from whence it came. At 
a turning of the avenue, he came in full 
view of the ruined chapel, and, looking 
up to the naked belfry, he saw the old 
bell slowly swinging, while giving forth 
that solemn, melancholy peal. 

Toll ! toll ! toll ! with measured inter- 
vals, just as those which are counted 
when the bell rings for the dead. 

Shocked and surprised, Santley hurried 
up to the chapel door, and looked in. 
Standing in the doorway was Baptisto, 
dressed from head to foot in solemn 
black, holding the rope, and with face 
turned upward, leisurely ringing the bell. 



17 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 



CHAPTER XXXVI. 

A FUNERAL PEAL. 

TOLL ! toll ! toll ! toll ! toll ! 

Heard from just underneath, the 
sound was hideous ; for the bell was 
rusty and old, and jangled with dull 
vibrations long after each peal had 
ceased. The minister looked and lis- 
tened with horror. Knowing as he did 
that the place had been turned to unholy 
uses, and retained none of its sacred cha- 
racter, he felt the whole proceeding to 
be diabolic. 

He called to Baptisto, but the 
Spaniard, still keeping his sallow face 



A FUNERAL PEAL. I? 1 

turned upward, and monotonously con- 
tinuing his work, did not seem to hear. 

Toll ! toll ! toll ! toll ! a sound to set 
the soul, as well as the teeth, on edge ; 
a peal worthy of Satan himself. 

All at once it ceased, with a last 
quivering jangle of moribund moaning 
notes. 

Baptisto released the rope, took off 
his hat, and taking out his handkerchief, 
quietly wiped his brow ; then, turning 
his dark eyes as if by accident towards 
the door, he perceived the minister. 

He did not seem at all surprised, but 
sighed heavily, and turned up the whites 
of his eyes ; then with a bow of pro- 
found respect, he advanced. In his suit 
of deep black, bound up with crape, and 
his high hat, crape-bound also, he looked 
like a highly respectable English under- 
taker. The resemblance was complete 



172 



FOXGLOVE MANOR. 



when he put his snow-white handker- 
chief to his mouth, and coughed solemnly 
behind it. 

"In Heaven's name, man, what are 
you about ? " cried Santley, aghast. 

Baptisto sighed again, turned up his 
eyes, and shook his head dismally. 

" Senor," he replied in a low voice, " I 
was ringing the chapel bell." 

"Sol heard. But why ? " the clergy- 
man demanded. 

" Hush ! not so loud, senor," he said, 
sinking his voice still lower. " Respect 
our sorrow ! " 

Santley's astonishment increased, and 
he gazed wildly at Baptisto. 

" Have you gone mad ? " he returned, 
unconsciously obeying the request and 
sinking his voice. " Your sorrow ? What 
sorrow ? Be good enough to explain 
this mystery." 



A FUNERAL PEAL. 1/3 

" Will you step into the house, sefior, 
and speak to my master. He will explain 
to you, I do not doubt ; oh yes, he will 
explain." 

And Baptisto sighed again. 

" He is at home, then ? " 

" Yes, senor ! " 

" And Mrs. Haldane ? " 

Baptisto groaned, and shook his head 
from side to side. 

"You know I have an appointment 
with your mistress to-day ? " 

"Yes, senor, I know that," answered 
Baptisto ; then, as if greatly affected 
he turned away and put his handker- 
chief to his eyes. 

" In the name of God," cried Santley, 
" what does it all mean ? " 

Baptisto turned, and fixed his great 
black eyes on those of the clergyman. 

" Senor, what do they say in your own 



174 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

church ? ' In the midst of life, we are 
in death!'" 

As he spoke, he pointed upward 
solemnly. Santley started as if stabbed. 
Then for the first time he be^an to un- 

o 

derstand. The dreary bell, the servant's 
suit of black, the man's unaccountably 
solemn and mysterious manner, all 
seemed to point to some horrible 
fatality. 

" Good heavens ! " he exclaimed. " Is 
any one dead ? Who is it ? Speak 
tell me " 

Baptisto paused, still fixing his eyes 
on Santley, and preparing to watch the 
full effect of his words. 

" Alas, senior, my mistress ! my poor 
mistress ! " 

Santley staggered back, and his face, 
which had before been very pale, became 
livid. 



A FUNERAL PEAL. 175 

" Not dead ! no, no ! " he moaned. 
" Seiior," replied the Spaniard, " it is 
true. She died last night." 

Alas, the blackness of the wintry sky ! 
That dreary darkness of the earth, the 
snow-wrapt woods ! Before that woeful 
message, delivered so sadly yet so im- 
pressively by the Spaniard, the last 
brightness of the light seemed to fade 
away ! Though the bell had ceased to 
toll, its dull vibration seemed still to ring 
on the air ! The clergyman staggered 
back, his heart stopped ; for a moment 
he seemed about to faint, and he had to 
clutch the doorway of the chapel for 
support. Baptisto saw the movement, 
but made no sign ; even if the other had 
been falling to the earth, indeed, he 
would have offered him no assistance. 

With one hand upon his heart, as if 



T 7 6 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

some sharp pain was there, the clergy- 
man struggled for speech. At last it 
came. 

" It is a lie," he panted ; " it must be 
a lie. No, no ! She is not dead ; it is 
impossible. Speak, man ! If you have 
any mercy, say it is a lie ! She lives ! " 

The Spaniard, who with a very ugly 
expression had heard himself accused of 
falsehood, and whose black eyes had 
gleamed very balefully, almost smiled 
the faint, wicked, inner smile peculiar to 
him. 

" Yes, you are right, senor ; she 
lives ! " 

Santley drew a quick breath of relief, 
and, coming closer, clutched the 
Spaniard's arm. 

" I knew it I was sure of it. What 
did you mean by telling me that false- 
hood?" 



A FUNERAL PEAL. - I 77 

Quietly, but firmly, Baptisto took the 
other's hand and displaced it from his 
arm. His air of cold respect did not 
change, but the expression of his eyes 
and mouth was malignant. 

" I did not lie, sefior." 

" What ! and yet you said 

" I said my lady lived, sefior, and it is 
true. We Spaniards do not lie. She 
lives indeed not here, but yonder, 
serior, -among the angels of the sky. 
Ah yes, she is there ! Her body is at 
rest; her soul, senor, lives still for ever." 

" Dead ! O God ! . . . When did she 
die ? " 

" Last night, senor, as I said." 

It was true, then, though so incon- 
ceivable. There was no mistaking the 
words, the manner of the man ; and yet 
beneath them both, there was a sinister 
appearance of horrible satisfaction. The 

VOL. III. N 



17 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

grief seemed simulated, the solemnity 
strangely false and treacherous. The 
cruel black eyes, which shone so bale- 
fully, seemed to express a malignant 
pleasure in the torture the tongue was 
inflicting. And yet, all the while, Bap- 
tisto's manner was perfectly polite the 
manner of a servant to a superior, 
stately in the manner of his race, but 
characteristically calm and respectful. 

" Since you doubt me, senor," con- 
tinued the Spaniard, " speak to my 
master. He himself will tell you of his 
sorrow, and you will know from him 
that, after all, I do not lie." 

As the man spoke, he fixed his eyes 
on something beyond the doorway, and 
bowed profoundly. Santley turned, and 
saw, standing close to him, the master of 
Foxglove Manor. 



( 179 ) 



CHAPTER XXXVII. 

THE DEATH-BED. 

HALDANE, like Baptisto, was clad 
funereally. A long black travelling cloak 
was wrapped around him, and a Spanish 
sombrero, also black, was drawn over 
his forehead. He was ghastly pale. 
He stood with knitted brows, gazing 
quietly at the clergyman. 

Santley tried to speak, but could not. 
Again his left hand clutched his heart, 
and he seemed about to fall. Then he 
heard, as if in a dream for the voice 
seemed far away these words : 

" I see, reverend sir, that Baptisto has 



i8o 



FOXGLOVE MANOR. 



told you everything. Yes, it is quite 
true, and yet so sudden, that even I can 
scarce realize my loss." 

" It is incredible," cried Santley. 
" Only a few hours since, I know, she 
was alive and well ; and now " 

" And now," returned Haldane, in the 
same cold, clear voice, " the end has 
come. It is strange that you, with your 
religious views, should be so surprised 
at what is sadly common. We mortals 
are like men travelling in ships upon a 
great sea ; we eat, drink, and are merry 
too often forgetting that there is only 
a mere plank between us and the 
grave." 

Santley listened in wonder, less at the 
words than at the calmness, the perfect 
self-control, with which they were 
uttered. He had always thought 
Haldane hard and callous, but now he 



THE DEATH-BED. l8l 

seemed to him a very monster of cold- 
bloodedness. 

" I cannot believe it," he cried ; " and 
you you seem so calm. Surely, if she 
were dead, indeed 

" What would you have me do ? " 
interrupted Haldane. "Weep, wring 
my hands ? Will wailing and gnashing 
of teeth buy back the lost ? If it 
would do so, reverend sir, then I might 
rave and tear my hair ? But no ; philo- 
sophy has taught me to contemplate the 
inevitable with resignation." 

" But she was so young ! So so 
beautiful ! " 

" Alas ! the young too often die first, 
and the prettiest flowers are the first to 
fade away. She was always delicate, 
and latterly, I fear, the spirit was too 
strong for the frail body. It is comfort 
to reflect, now all is done, that she had 



182 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

at least the consolations of your holy 
faith. Death comes to all. Life is but 
the business of a day. One dies at 
dawn, another not till afternoon ; another 
creeps wearily on till evening, when the 
stars of the eternity twinkle down upon 
his sad grey hairs. She died in her 
prime, and was at least spared the 
sorrows and infirmities that attend the 
lingering decay of nature. So peace be 
with her ! " 

" It is too horrible ! " cried Santley. 
" If this is true, life is a hideous night- 
mare a waking curse. She was too 
young, too good, to die ! " 

" It is strange," returned Haldane 
thoughtfully, " that you, with your beau- 
tiful faith in immortality, should fear 
death so much. I have often noticed 
this inconsistency in men of your reli- 
gion. Strong as is your belief in 



THE DEATH-BED. 



18 



another life a life, moreover, of eternal 
delight and happiness you cling with 
curious tenacity to this life, which, at the 
same time, you admit to be miserable. 
We men of science, on the other hand, 
who believe death to be the final disso- 
lution of the creature into his component 
element, can contemplate the change 
with equanimity." 

Santley looked at him in positive 
horror. Cold as ice, the man discussed 
his loss as if it were a mere matter 
for intellectual argument, a question in 
which he felt merely the interest of a 
dispassionate spectator of human affairs. 
And this, with the very shadow of death 
upon him ; with his wife lying dead in 
the house, struck down, as it were, by 
the very thunderbolt of God. So far, 
then, he, Santley, was justified. He 
had not wronged the man, when he 



184 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

thought him a creature devoid of 
common tenderness and feeling, warmed 
out of his humanity by his frightful creed 
of negation. Such a being was beyond 
the pale of Christian brotherhood. He 
had done right ; he had not sinned, when 
he had sought to lead Mrs. Haldane 
from the martyrdom of an evil wedlock, 
to the shining heights of a happier and 
more spiritual life. 

" How did she die ? It must have 
been very sudden. Tell me, for pity's 
sake ! " 

" Calm yourself, reverend sir. Ah ! 
you must, have a tender disposition to 
feel another's loss so much. You could 
not feel it more deeply, if you had lost a 
person very dear to you a wife of your 
own bosom, so to speak." 

" I I esteemed the lady," stammered 
the clergyman, shrinking before the 



THE DEATH-BED. 1 85 

other's cold, scrutinizing gaze. " She 
was so good, so noble ! " 

" Ah ! was she not ? But you asked 
me how she died ? I think it was some 
obscure affection of the heart. She was 
always so emotional, so impulsive ; and 
latterly, I fear, she was under great 
excitement. You will be grieved to 
hear she passed away in bitter mental 
pain." 

Santley started. Haldane continued, 
in the same cold voice, always keeping 
his eyes fixed steadily on those of the 
clergyman. 

" There was something on her mind 
some load, some trouble, some cruel 
self-reproach. I gathered from her 
fragmentary words that she was unhappy, 
that she sought my forgiveness for some 
fault of which she considered herself 
guilty. Whatever that fault was, it 



1 86 



FOXGLOVE MANOR. 



preyed upon her life, and hastened her 
end." 

"Why did not you send for me ? It 
is horrible to think she died without 
the last offices of religion. I would 

have comforted her, prayed with her ,- 
j " 

He paused in confusion, shrinking 
before the other's steady gaze. 

" There was no time," answered 
Haldane ; "and besides, to be honest, 
I did not care to have a clergyman." 

"It was not an outrage ! " cried 
Santley. "It was blasphemous ! " 

" Pardon me. I don't believe in 
confession, even at the extreme moment ; 
and I thought that, if she had anything 
to reveal, it had better be told to the 
person most interested, namely, her 
husband." 

" Anything to reveal ! " exclaimed 



THE DEATH-BED. i; 

Santley, shuddering. " What do you 
mean ? " 

" What I say. I am aware you are 
not a Roman Catholic, but I am afraid 
your sentiments lean dangerously to the 
offices of that pertinacious priesthood. 
You would doubtless have asked her to 
pour her secret into your ears, with a 
view to absolution. I preferred to keep 
her dying message sacred to myself. 
If she had erred and was penitent, as I 
suppose, no priest, Catholic or Protestant, 
lay or clerical, could absolve her ? " 

Utterly bewildered and aghast, the 
unfortunate clergyman listened on. 
Surely hell had opened, and the thick 
sulphurous fumes were rising up to 
cover and darken the wholesome earth. 
That cold, grim figure, talking so calmly 
and watching him so keenly ; that 
other dark figure of the Spaniard, still 



l88 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

crouching near them in the doorway ; 
surely, too, these were not men, but 
devils, sent to torture him and drive 
him mad. He looked around him. The 
snow-clad wood stretched on every 
side, save where the white lawns opened, 
marked with damp black spots of thaw, 
and stretching up to the doors of the 
gloomy mansion ; but overhead the 
dark heavens had opened for a moment, 
and one sickly beam, falling aslant from 
the vaporous sky, was gleaming on the 
mansion's roof. Unconsciously he fixed 
his eyes on that spot of brightness, in 
wonder and in terror, for he was think- 
ing of the piteous sight within the house. 
Dull as his faculties seemed, paralyzed 
by the extraordinary shock he had 
received, he had not failed to understand 
Haldane's statement that his wife had 
suffered mental agony, and had made, or 



THE DEATH-BED. 189- 

tried to make, some kind of confession. 
After a long pause, still fixing his eyes 
on the sunbeam upon the roof, he 
murmured, almost vacantly 

" I am not quite myself, and do not 
seem to comprehend. Did you say that 
Mrs. Haldane asked for a clergyman 
before she died ? " 

" Certainly. She asked for you /" 
Had his eyes not been turned away, 
he would have been startled by the 
expression on Haldane's face so full of 
cold satisfaction and contempt. 

" For me ?" he murmured ; " for me ?" 
" Yes. You had great influence over 
her a singular influence. Perhaps, 
having been her spiritual adviser and 
knowing her thoughts so intimately, you 
could help me to discover the cause of 
the sorrow, the self-reproach, of which 
I have spoken." 



I 90 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

" I I do not understand. She always 
seemed so bright, so happy." 

" She had no cause for secret grief ? 
None, you think ? " 

" None." 

Unconsciously, as he spoke, he turned 
and met the gaze of his cross-questioner. 
He flushed nervously, and turned his 
eyes away. Did Haldane suspect the 
secret of his love ? Had Ellen, before 
she died, spoken anything to incriminate 
him ? Surely not ; else his reception 
would have been different. Yet in her 
husband's manner and look, despite his 
frigid politeness, there seemed a strange 
suspicion. The cold, cruel eyes never 
-ceased to scrutinize him ; they seemed 
to read his very soul. 

" I see, reverend sir, that you cannot 
realize what has taken place." 

" I cannot realize it ! " 



THE DEATH-BED. 

" You will at least believe the evidence 
of your own eyes. Step with me to the 
house, and look upon her ! " 

As he spoke, Haldane moved towards 
the house. After a moment's hesitation, 
Santley followed. Yes, he would look 
upon her for the last time ; he would 
kneel and pray beside her. As he 
walked, he staggered like a drunken man. 

They passed from the dismal shadow 
of the trees, crossed the snowy lawn, and 
ascended the steps leading to the house 
door. How dark and funereal looked 
the old mansion as they entered ! All 
was silent ; not a soul stirred ; their 
footsteps sounded hollow on the paven 
floor of the open hall. 

Haldane led the way into the drawing- 
room. The blinds were drawn, there 
was no fire, and the chamber seemed 
like a tomb. 



I9 2 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

"Wait here one moment," said Hal- 
dan'e ; and he retired, closing the door. 

Santley sat and waited. His very life 
seemed ebbing away within him, but the 
low, deep thud of his overburdened heart 
kept time like a clock, and his ears were 
full of a sound like low thunder. His 
lips were dry as dust, and he moistened 
them vainly with his trembling tongue. 
Even then, as he sat shivering, he heard 
again from the distance the faint chime 
of the desolate chapel bell. 

Toll ! toll ! toll ! toll ! 

The door opened. 

Haldane, bareheaded, appeared on 
the threshold. 

" Come this way," he said in a 
whisper. 

Santley rose and tremulously followed. 
Through the dark lobbies, up the broad 
staircase, he went in terror, till Haldane 



THE DEATH-BED. 193 

paused at the closed door of the room 
on the first story, and, placing his finger 
solemnly on his lips, turned a key and 
entered. 

Santley followed, and found himself 
at last in the chamber of death. 

It was a large bedchamber, dimly 
lighted by the faint rays that crept 
through the blind, and scented, or so it 
seemed, with some sickly perfume. In 
one corner stood the white, cold bed, 
snowy sheeted, snowy curtained ; and 
there, stretched out chill and stark, lay 
something whiter and colder -- the 
marble bust of what had once been a 
living creature. 

Yes, it was she, beautiful even in 
death. Her eyes were closed, her hair 
was smoothed softly over her brows, 
her face was fixed like marble in ghastly 
pallor, her waxen hands were folded on 
VOL. in. o 



194 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

the sheet which covered her from feet 
to chin. She almost seemed to be 
sleeping, not dead, she was so calm, 
peaceful, and lovely, in that last repose. 

On a small table beside the bed lay 
her Bible (Santley knew it well ; it was a 
present from himself, with his own name 
written on the flyleaf), and a waxen 
taper, unlighted. Lying on the coverlet, 
close to her fingers, was a wreath of 
immortelles. 

And through the window, which was 
left open at the top to admit the pure 
air, came again, wafted by the wind, the 
low, dreadful tolling of the chapel bell. 

Toll ! toll ! 

Haldane stood close by the bedside, 
not looking at his wife, but always 
keeping his stern eyes fixed upon the 
clergyman. Step by step, horrified yet 
fascinated, Santley crept nearer and 



THE DEATH-BED. 195 

nearer to the bed, his eyes dilated, his 
face even more ghastly than the face on 
which he gazed. He noticed everything 
the marble features, the folded hands, 
the closed eyes beneath their waxen 
lids ; he felt in his nostrils the sick 
perfume of death. 

Then, overmastered by the piteous 
sight, he raised his arms wildly in the 
air, uttered a cry of anguish and despair, 
and fell, moaning and sobbing, on his 
knees by the bedside. 



196 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 



CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

TORTURE AND CONFESSION. 

FOR some minutes he remained kneeling, 
his strong frame shaken by deep sobs, 
his lips murmuring some incoherent 
prayer. Then he felt a touch upon the 
shoulder. He looked up, shuddering. 

"Come!" said Haldane, looking 
darkly down upon him. 

" No, no ! " he cried, in the extremity 
of his agitation. " Let me stay here ! 
Let me pray by her side a little while ! " 

" Come away ! " answered Haldane, 
more sternly. " This is no place for 
you." 



TORTURE AND CONFESSION. 1 97 

Santley rose trembling to his feet, and 
gazed again upon the cold sleeping face 
and form. 

" Leave me ! leave me ! " he ex- 
claimed, turning wildly towards his tor- 
turer. " Leave me alone with her ! " 

The face of the master of the house 
became terrible in its sternness, as he 
responded 

" Command yourself, man, and follow 
me ! You forget yourself. This place 
is sacred. ' 

"My office is sacred. I desire you 
to leave me alone with the dead." 

" And I refuse. I do not want your 
prayers, nor does she need them. 
Come ! " 

With a low moan, Santley turned 
again towards the bed, stretching out his 
arms; but this time Haldane inter- 
posed, with angry determination 



198 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

" Are you mad ? I command you to 
come away." 

"O God! God!" 

" Do not blaspheme. She who sleeps 
there is nothing, or should be nothing, to 
you. Leave the room, or, by Heaven, I 
shall have to make you ! " 

Beside himself with excitement, 
Santley glared at Haldane, and clenched 
his hands, as if he would have struck 
him ; but, remembering the place in 
which he stood, and the solemnity of 
the occasion, he conquered his insane 
impulse, and tottered to the door. 
Haldane followed, and as he turned on 
the threshold, put out his hand and 
pushed him into the lobby ; then 
followed, and turned the key in the lock. 

" Come with me," he said, in a voice 
of command. 

Santley obeyed, and the two descended 



TORTURE 4Nti CONFESSION. 199 

the stairs. On the way down they met 
Baptisto ascending, with whom Haldane 
whispered hurriedly for a moment. 
Then they made their way through the 
dark lobbies, and again entered the 
gloomy drawing-room. With a groan 
Santley threw himself on a chair, and 
hid his face in his hands. 

" You are strangely moved," said Hal- 
dane, coldly. " What was my wife to 
you, that you should exhibit this un- 
seemly grief ? " 

Santley drew his hands from his face 
and looked up wildly. 

" What was she to me ? " he cried. 
" More than life the light of all the 
world. Now that light is gone, and I 
am desolate." 

" Strange words," said Haldane 
quietly, " to come from so holy a man ! 
You are not in your sane mind." 



200 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

" God knows I am not," returned the 
clergyman, " and yet ... I am sane 
enough to know what I am saying. 
Yes, you may stare ! I am sick of dis- 
guise. I'll wear the mask no more. I 
loved your wife." 

Still perfectly retaining his composure, 
and almost smiling, Haldane said, with a 
dark sneer 

" Most reverend sir, I knew it." 

" You know it now ! " 

" Pardon me, I have known it all 
along." 

" You may have guessed something, 
but not all. . I loved your wife. You 
were unworthy of her. I sought to win 
her from you, and I succeeded yes, for 
she hated you, and loved me. God was 
on my side, for you were an unbeliever, 
a blasphemer. I tried to make her leave 
the shelter of your roof for mine. She 



TORTURE-AND CONFESSION. 2OI 

was my first love. I tried, do you hear, 
day and night, to make her my own 
my own in this world, and in the next." 
Again that calm reply 
"Most sainted sir, I knew it." 
"And I tell you, I succeeded. She 
loved me. She would have followed me 
to the world's end. This house was hell 
to her, because you had no religion. 
Her soul was mine." 

" And now ? " said the other coldly. 

." And now, most holy and reverend 

} " 
sir r 

" And now, though she has passed 
away in her beauty and her holiness, I 
love her still. She is dead, and I shall 
die. In heaven, at least, we shall be 
together ! " 

" Are you so sure that she is there f " 
said Haldane, still very calmly. "Are 
you so sure that yon will follow her ? / 



202 . FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

am not so sure. If there be the heaven 
you speak of, it was never made for the 
guilty. The door of your paradise is 
wide, but it is too narrow, I have heard, 
for the sinner who dies without repent- 
ance." 

" The sinner ? Who is the sinner ? " 
" She who sleeps upstairs ? " 
" It is a falsehood," said Santley, 
rising to his feet. " She was an angel, 
without a stain, and you you made her 
wretched. Yes, wretched ! She was 
too good for you too holy and spiritual. 
A saint ! a martyr ! God will cherish 
and justify her ! " 

" Saints have fallen ; and she fell." 
" Fell ? You dare not accuse her ! " 
" I do accuse her ; I accuse you both ! 
. . . Ah ! my man of God, there was no 
need to throw aside the mask at all ; I 
knew the face behind it from the first. 



TORTURE AND CONFESSION. 203 

She is punished as she deserves. Now 
it is your turn." 

His manner had changed, from one of 
cold self-control to one of concentrated 
passion. With voice raised and hand 
pointing, he advanced towards the clergy- 
man. They stood close together, face 
to face. 

But Santley fell back, horrified. 

" Whatever I am, she was pure too 
pure and good for this black world. 
Speak reverently of her ! Although I 
loved her and I tell you my love is 
justified she was not guilty of any sin. 
She was only too faithful to her wifely 
vow faithful in thought and deed. 
Again I tell you, speak reverently of 
her ! " 

" No hypocrisy can save her now," 
said Haldane, sternly. "You have thrown 
aside the mask, as you say ; it is useless 



204 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

to assume it again. I know everything 
her guilt, and yours ! " 

" She was not guilty. You cannot 
believe it ! " 

" Why should I doubt it ? The thing 
was a thousand times stronger than your 
proofs of Holy Writ. Now, if I said to 
you that she had confessed her guilt, 
what would you say ? " 

" I should say that it was not true ! " 

" Not true ! " 

" A lie the wickedest of lies." 

" Then, if she was innocent, your 
guilt is trebled, and you are her 
murderer." 

"Her murderer ? her murderer ? " 

" Yes. You have been liberal in con- 
fession ; I will follow your example. 
You saw her lying yonder ? Calm, cold, 
and beautiful, was she not ? yes, as a 
sleeping infant. Shall I tell you how 



TORTURE AND CONFESSION. 205 

she died ? By poison. By the deadliest 
of all poisons." 

" Poisoned ? " cried the clergyman, 
raising his voice to a scream. 

" Precisely. A painless death, though 

sure and sudden. You see, although I 

kept within my right, I was merciful. 

Death was better than disgrace, and so 

-I killed her ! " 

Santley clutched at Haldane then, 
with a moan, sank swooning upon the 
floor. 

When he recovered, he staggered to 
his feet, and looked around him. He 
was still there, in the room, which was 
now quite dark, but he was alone. He 
awoke as from death, with the cold sweat 
upon his forehead, his form shaking like 
a leaf. What a change the experience 
of the last hour had made in him ! He 



206 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

felt as if he had been mad for years. As 
the sick horror of his position spread 
over his bewildered senses, he groaned 
aloud. 

Then remembering where he was, and 
fearing the surrounding darkness, he 
groped towards the door. 

Suddenly it opened, and Haldane him- 
self, holding a lamp in his hand, appeared 
upon the threshold. As the light flashed 
upon the minister's form, it showed a 
face horrible in its anguish and despair. 
With his hair wild and dishevelled, his 
neckcloth disarranged, his black frock 
suit disordered, Santley seemed trans- 
formed. His beauty was turned into 
ugliness, his elegance into coarseness ; 
his head, no longer erect and proud, 
drooped between his shoulders like an 
old man's. 

" Where are you going ? " said Hal- 



TORTURE AND CONFESSION. 2O7 

dane, interposing, and placing down the 
lamp he carried. 

" Up yonder, to see if it is true. It 

is surely a frightful dream ! Let me 

i " 
pass ! 

" Stay where you are ! Your presence 
shall not outrage the dead again." 

" She is dead, then ? " 

" What you have seen, you have seen." 

" And you you killed her ? Is it 
true ? " 

" Perfectly." 

With a wild cry, Santley clutched 
Haldane ; but his hold was so weak, so 
tremulous, that the other's strong frame 
scarcely shook. 

" You shall not escape," cried the 
minister. "Coward! murderer! I will 
deliver you up to justice ! " 

" Pshaw ! " 

With a powerful movement, Haldane 



2O8 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

disengaged himself, and his opponent 
fell back into the room. Santley was 
not a strong man, and just then he 
seemed positively helpless ; nor would 
he at any time have been a match 
for the square-built, broad-shouldered 
master of Foxglove Manor. 

" Hands off, if you please," said Hal- 
dane. " If it comes to a trial of strength, 
I shall crush your reverend carcase like 
an egg. Another man, in my position, 
would have wrung your neck long ago. 
Do you know why I have been so gentle 
with you ? " 

Santley gazed at him vacantly, and 
did not speak. 

" Because I prefer to prolong your 
agony as long as possible, and to let the 
world know of what stuff its priests are 
made." 

" You are a murderer," gasped Santley 






TORTURE AND CONFESSION. 209 

again, clutching at him, but with the 
feeble grasp of a sick child. " You are 
a murderer, on your own confession. 
I tell you, I will give you up." 

"Apres?" said Haldane, coolly. 

" You have destroyed your wife the 
purest and best woman God ever made. 
She was innocent of all wrong. She 
was an angel married to a devil, that was 
all." 

"Will you swear to me, before the 
God you worship, that there was nothing 
between you ? " 

" Yes, I will swear it. I loved her, 
but she was pure. If there was any sin, 
it was on my shoulders, for I tempted 
her. Yet you destroyed the innocent, 
and let the guilty live." 

Overcome by his emotion, Santley 
sank into a chair, sobbing. Haldane 
watched him for a short space in silence ; 

VOL. III. P 



210 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

then approached him and placed a hand 
on his shoulder. He tried to shake off 
the touch, with a shiver of loathing. 

" I am glad that you perceive your 
own guilt ; that is something. Under 
the mask of friendship worse, under 
cover of your holy calling, you came to 
this house. I welcomed you, entertained 
you. I gave you my hand freely, as 
man to man ; trusted you, even respected 
you, despite your superstitions. How 
did you reward this hospitality ? By 
seducing, or seeking to seduce, the wife 
of the man who welcomed you without 
suspicion. This was your religion this 
was your sense of Christian brotherhood. 
My man of God was a hypocrite an 
adulterer. I tell you, a dog would have 
more honour, more purity. You made 
my house a hell. In return, I have put 
hell into your heart. You hear ? Into 









TORTURE AND CONFESSION. 2 I I 

your heart, if you have a heart, which 
would seem doubtful. Another would 
.have killed you ; I preferred to let you 
live." 

The clergyman looked up piteously. 
His force seemed broken, his eyes 
streamed with tears. 

"You should have killed me," he 
returned. " I was to blame, not she. 
You may kill me now. I shall then 
-be at rest with her." 

Haldane's face blackened. 

" Do not couple your names together. 
The guilt of her death is yours, not 
mine." 

" Mine ? " 

" Yes. I was only the instrument, you 
were the cause. The seed of all this 
sorrow was sown in your black heart. 
Had you never tempted her, had you 
never filled her mind with the poison 



212 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

bred in your own, she would be living 
now, a happy, honoured wife. You see, 
my man of God, that you are the 
murderer ; you have killed her, not I." 

" O God ! God ! " moaned Santley,. 
hiding his face in horror. 

" It is too late to call on God. If 
that is true," pursued the other, "this 
also is true that you have lost her 
eternally. Your God is a God of 
justice. He does not, either in hell or 
heaven, bring the murderer and his 
victim together. You murdered her 
soul first ; then, since you made it in- 
evitable, I destroyed its mortal dwelling.. 
Since you believe in hell, surely this is 
enough to damn you. Say she is inno- 
cent. The better for her ; the worse 
for you. She is among the angels ; 
your place is elsewhere, eternally ; there 
you may wail and gnash your teeth in 



TORTURE AND CONFESSION. 213 

vain. You see, reverend sir, I am com- 
forting you with your own beautiful 
creed. Your faith in it was great ; 
through your faith in it, you are lost 
for ever." 

With a cry, almost an imprecation, 
Santley staggered to his feet, unable to 
listen any longer. Sorrow, shame, terror, 
horror, contended within him. Already 
,it seemed as if the earth was opened to 
swallow him, the forked tongues of fire 
shooting up to envelop and consume 
him. 

He rushed towards the door. This 
time the other did not interpose. 

" Where are you going, pray ? " he 
demanded quietly. 

Santley turned round upon him, livid, 
glaring like a madman. 

" To fetch the police," he answered. 
" I shall denounce you. Whatever be- 



214 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

comes of me, you shall* die, upon the 
gallows." 

" Permit me to light you to the door," 
answered the philosopher, smiling. " You 
could not go upon a better errand. 
Sound the alarm, fetch the police hither ; 
the sooner the better. When they 
come, they shall be acquainted with the 
truth. They shall know, all the world 
shall know, that I killed my wife ; and ! 
why? Because a clergyman, a man of 
God, honoured by many, respected by 
all, had come to my house like a satyr, , 
and made it a nest of pollution. I shall 
stand in the dock, and the chief witness, 
against me will be yourself the Rev.. 
Charles Santley, Vicar of Omberley, a 
living light, a pillar of the Church, self- 
convicted as hypocrite, liar, adulterer, 
seducer, satyr filthy from the soul to 
the finger-tips. How the sweet maids 



TORTURE AND CONFESSION. 215 

of your congregation will stare ! It will 
be a cause celebre a nine-days' wonder. 
And on the next Sabbath, perhaps, you 
will preach the gospel of love and purity, 
as usual ! " 

Santley clung to the doorway, limp 
and crushed, a picture of mingled fury 
and desolation. 

" By the way, I shall call witnesses in 
my own defence. First, Miss Dove, 
you see, I know her one of the 
many who have ornamented slippers for 
the holy man's feet, and cloths for his 
altar. She will tell them of meetings by 
night, of holy trysts, of Eden, and of 
the fall. Oh, it will be a famous affair, 
and greatly to the honour of the Church. 
But why are you lingering so long ? 
Go at once, reverend sir, and proclaim 
the murder. You see, I am quite 
ready." 



2l6 



FOXGLOVE MANOR. 



He pointed to the hall door. With 
a wild cry, Santley passed along the 
lobby, opened the door, and rushed out 
into the air. 



CHAPTER XXXIX. 

GETHSEMANE. 

BY this time darkness had fallen, though 
it was still early in the afternoon. 

There was a high wind, moaning 
around among the leafless trees ; and, 
from time to time, flakes of snow were 
falling large, and far apart. As he 
descended the snow-clad steps, he 
stumbled and fell among the drift, but 
rose again immediately, covered with 
patches of whiteness, and pursued his 
way. 

Was it the wind shrieking, or some- 
thing in his own troubled brain ? He 



2l8 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

looked wildly around him, plunging this 
way and that, like a blind man. The 
darkness frothed before his eyes, and 
burst into spangled stars, as when one 
receives a violent blow, or as when one 
is sinking in deep water and choking 
for breath. 

Presently he turned and looked back 
from the centre of the frozen lawn. 
Behind him, blacker than the blackness 
of the night, lay the great shadow of the 
Manor house; but from one window 
above the entrance came a feeble light- 
He knew the window well. It was that 
of the chamber wherein he had looked 
upon the dead. 

Alone in the darkness, he threw up> 
his arms and uttered a wail of despair. 
As his voice rose upon the wind, other 
voices seemed to echo him with sounds 
of mocking laughter. Haldane had told 






GE THSEMA NE. 219. 

him that he had lost his soul alive.. 
Indeed it seemed so, and hell was 
already around, and in him. 

But he remembered his purpose, and 
hastened on. Whatever the issue might 
be, he was determined to hand over that 
man to the law, to make him expiate 
on the gallows his act of cowardly, 
treacherous vengeance. He had not 
spared her, and he should, at least, pay 
the penalty. Then, when he had 
avenged her death, he cared not what 
became of himself. He could die, too; 
yes, and would. 

Ah ! but the man was right, when 
he had torn his soul open and showed 
the cancerous sore within it. He had 
broken the laws of God, and he had lost 
eternally what he loved. There was no- 
justification for him none. He had 
been an adulterer in thought, if not in 



220 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

deed a hypocrite, hiding a loathsome 
lust under the garment of religion. 
Why had he not been warned in time ? 
He might have known that the man he 
had to deal with a man who believed in 
nothing would pause at nothing. He 
remembered, too late, that .monkish tale 
of jealousy and murder, which might 
; have told him, had he not been so mad, 
what was lurking so pitilessly in the 
man's mind. It was little comfort now, 
to reflect that he was innocent in act. 
The consequences had been the same, 
as horrible, as irrevocable', as if he had 
sinned seventy times and seven. By his 
abominable solicitation, he had betrayed 
the woman he adored. Yes, he had 
killed her ! What hope could there be 
for him, in this world or another, after 
that ? 

Nevertheless, he hastened on, fighting 



GE THSEMANE. 2 2 I 

with his own thoughts in the darkness,, 
stumbling through the drifted snow. He 
found the avenue and entered it pass- 
ing into deeper darkness, hearing the 
wind shriek more loudly on every side. 
The police barrack was at Omberley, five 
miles distant. He would hasten there 
without delay, tell what had taken place, 
and return with the officers that night. 
He would not rest until he had the 
murderer bound and captured : for even 
yet, if he did come back quickly, he 
might escape. 

Then he thought of all the shame, the 
scandal, which must assuredly come with 
the revelation of the truth. The women 
who had thought him almost a sainted 
creature, the villagers who had watched 
him with simple reverence all who had 
respected him and heard the gospel of 
love from his lips, would point at him as. 



222 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

a shameless creature, a scandal to his 
holy office. He could never mount the 
pulpit again, or walk in the sun. They 
would strip the priestly raiment from 
his back, and hound him away into 
the world. Even his own sister, who 
thought him the purest and best of men, 
would shrink from him with loathing ; 
nay, how could he look her, or any pure 
creature, in the face ? 

All that, and more, he thought, could 
have been borne, could he only have 
restored the dead to life. His own fall 
and degradation would have been a trifle, 
if he had not sacrificed that sainted being 
the woman of his early love, the 
creature of his idolatry, the object of 
his insane and fatal passion. She had 
suffered for his guilt, but she had not 
atoned for it. Nothing could atone, 
nothing. How gladly that night would 






GETHSEMANE. 223 

he have died, if by death he could have 
restored her to the sunshine of the 
world ! 

Then, in his despair, he reproached 
her God the God who had made her 
so beautiful, and him so weak. Why 
had God ever brought them together ? 
Why, having once separated them, had 
He ever caused them to meet again ? 
It was cruel, unmerciful, to tempt a man 
so much! He had only asked for a 
little love, and without love life was 
so dark. And before temptation came, 
had he not done God good service ? 
More than one doubting heart had been 
turned, by his persuasion, back to the 
faith of Christ ; more than one erring 
sinner had, through him, been led back, 
penitent and weeping, to the Church's 
fold ! All men had respected him for 
his blameless life, for his good deeds. 



224 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

He had been kind to the suffering,, 
generous to the poor. He had been 
an example of Christian charity to his 
fellows. He had reflected honour on 
the university which gave him to the 
Church, and on the Church which had 
accepted him into her bosom. Though 
so young, he had risen high, by his own 
talents, his intelligence, his own blame- 
less character. And now he had lost 
everything, because he had pined for a 
little sympathy, a little love. 

As these thoughts passed through his 
brain, his eyes were blinded with tears, 
and, in utter self-pity, he sobbed aloud. 

How dark it was ! how miserably 
dark and cold ! He could not see an 
inch before him, could not even perceive 
the white ground beneath his feet ; but 
the wind wailed louder and louder on 
every side. 



GE THSEMANE. 225 

He remembered how gladly, the pre- 
vious day, he had proclaimed the good 
tidings of the birth of Christ. The 
bells had rung, and from every side, 
over the white landscape, cold, but 
cheerful and light with sunshine, the 
people had come gathering in rich and 
poor, old and young, all gaily clad for 
Christmas-tide. He had stood away 
stoled in the pulpit, and had seen the 
shining faces upturned reverently to his, 
and had heard the clear voices ring out 
in happiness and praise. Ah, it had 
been a beautiful time ! Only yesterday, 
and already it seemed so far away ! 

In his misery, he quite forgot how 
much and how often he had fretted 
under the yoke of his priestly duties ; 
how he had despised the ignoble natures 
of his flock ; how he had panted again 
and again for a freer life and for more 

VOL. III. Q 



220 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

eventful days ! What he had lost for 
ever now seemed strangely dear. As 
he reviewed his life in the village, he 
remembered none of its cares, none of 
its indignities ; it seemed all peaceful, 
.all beautiful,' now ! Yes, it was heaven, 
though he had not known it ; heaven, 
though he had fallen from it. And he 
could never return to it again ; never 
preach in the church, never minister to 
man or woman, never know the blessing 
and the peace of a divine vocation any 
more ! 

Suddenly he paused, stumbling in be- 
wilderment and terror. He had stepped 
into a deep snowdrift, which rose nearly 
to his knees. He looked wildly round, 
but could discern nothing. He pressed 
his way forward, and stumbled against 
the frozen root of a great tree. He 
turned and groped another way ; again 



GETHSEMANE. 227 

something interposed. Gradually, strain- 
ing his eyes through the darkness, he 
discerned that he was surrounded by 
trees on every side. 

He had wandered from the avenue, 
,and was long among the plantations 
he could not tell in what direction. 

How long he wandered among the 
dreary woods he could not tell. 

A mortal fever was upon him, and he 
struggled confusedly this way and that, 
sometimes stumbling and falling amid 
the snow, sometimes coming violently 
against the frozen tree-trunks, some- 
times rushing among briers and tangled 
underwoods which clutched him like 
fingers, and rent his clothing as he tore 
himself away. 

He shouted, thinking he might be 
heard. His shout rose faintly on the 



228 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

wind, and was echoed by unearthly 
voices. 

Then he seemed to see sheeted shapes 
passing before him ; ghostly faces flash- 
ing into his own, and fading away. He 
saw her face, marble-white as he had 
seen it in death, and with horrible re- 
buking eyes. 

Ah, that night! that night! He 
passed an eternity of agony, in a few 
hours ! 

At last he fell, half fainting, on the 
stump of a tree, and rested, afraid to 
venture further. Pausing there, he 
clasped his hands together and prayed. 

For her ; for himself. He prayed 
to Heaven for help and mercy. In his 
abject fear and humiliation, he prostrated 
his soul before his God. His strength 
seemed failing him, and he felt as if he 
were dying. Ah, the horrible darkness ! 



GETHSEMANE. 229 

the nameless terror ! Would he ever 
live to see the light again ? 

The snow thickened and fell upon 
him ; he shook it off again and again, but 
still it fell, blinding and covering him. 
He became very cold, despite the fever 
in his veins cold as death. Afraid to 
perish that way, he rose to his feet and 
struggled on. 

At last, after wandering on and on 
for an indefinite space of time, he saw 
a light breaking through the trees. He 
shouted, and ran forward. 

The light came from the windows of 
some building, and streamed brightly out 
into the darkness, lighting up the snowy 
ground, revealing the trees and branches 
in silhouette. Wild and despairing, he 
approached nearer, and saw a door, 
through the hinges of which shone a 



230 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

faint radiance. Then he recognized the 
place. It was the ruined chapel of 
Foxglove Manor. 

He did not hesitate, but pushed open 
the door. He found himself in the 
building which George Haldane had 
turned from a temple of God into a 
laboratory of science. In the centre of 
it, surrounded by books, papers, and 
scientific implements of divers kinds, a 
man sat, calmly writing by the light of 
a brilliant oil-lamp. 

As Santley entered, he looked up. 
The master of Foxglove Manor. 

Spectral and ghastly, his hair dis- 
hevelled, his dress torn and disordered, 
covered with mud, the minister staggered 
into the chapel. Who, in that frenzied 
apparition, would have recognized the 
sometime spruce and comely Vicar of 
Omberley ? In one of his falls he had 



GE THSEMANE. 2 3 I 

cut his forehead on a tree or stone, and 
blood was oozing from the wound. He 
was a horrible sight horrible and piti- 
able. 

Haldane looked up, and nodded. 

" So, it is you ! " he said, pushing his 
papers aside. 

A large meerschaum pipe lay on the 
table beside him, with a box of lucifers. 
He struck a light, and quietly began to 
smoke, as he continued 

" You have returned quickly. Pray,, 
have you brought the police with you ? " 

Without answering him directly, 
Santley approached the table, and, fixing 
his wild eyes upon him, demanded in 
a hollow voice 

" What are you doing ? " 

The philosopher leant back in his- 
chair, and blew a cloud of smoke into 
the air. 



2^2 



FOXGLOVE MANOR. 



"Writing, as you see." 

" Writing ! " echoed Santley. 

" Yes ; at my history. To-night's ex- 
perience has furnished me with material 
for a new chapter on ' Spiritual Vivi- 
section.' ' 

The man was inconceivable, even 
satanic. Santley was again dominated 
by his supernatural sang froid, his su- 
preme self-control. 

" Have you a heart, man ? " he cried, 
gazing in horror upon him. 

Haldane smiled diabolically. 

" A reference to the most rudimentary 
system of physiology," he replied, "would 
convince you that I could not exist 
without one." 

" Death in your house, murder in your 
heart, you can sit here so calmly, still 
busy with your blasphemies ? You 
cannot be human." 



GETHSEMA NE. 233 

" On the contrary, I am particularly 
human." 

"No, no ; you are a devil ! a devil ! " 

" If you were a philosopher, you 
would know that devils do not exist ; 
even your own not too intellectual 
Church has rejected demonology. I am 
simply a physician ; yours." 

" Mine ! my physician." 

" I have opened your heart, to show 
you the canker existing within it. I 
have shown you, in an interesting ex- 
periment, that the disease of supersen- 
suous desire, which with you is consti- 
tutional and inherited, culminates in 
moral scrofula, imbecility, hysterical 
mania, and death. It is, moreover, 
capable of spreading contagion a sort 
of cancerous cell, which, inhaled by the 
lips or from the polluted atmosphere, 
must inevitably bring disease and death 



234 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

to others. The kiss of the leper, 
reverend sir ! For the future, I should 
recommend you to carry a clapper with- 
you, as .they do in the East, to warn off 
the unwary." 

The comparison was a hideous one ; 
but indeed, at that moment, it did not 
seem inappropriate. Wild, ghastly, dis- 
hevelled, bloody, and degraded, Santley 
looked a creature to be avoided and 
even feared. He listened to the cold 
periods of his torturer, fixed his pale 
eyeballs, which seemed vacant of all- 
light, upon his face ; then suddenly, with 
a spasmodic scream, he leapt upon him 
and seized him by the throat. 

The attack was so unexpected and 
so sudden, that Haldane was taken by 
surprise. He sprang to his feet, while 
the other clung around him like a wild 
cat. But the struggle was only brief. 



GETHSEMANE. 235 

In another minute he had gripped the 
vicar with his powerful arms, and pinned 
him against the wall of the chapel. 
There he writhed and wrestled, im- 
potent, furious, foaming at the mouth. 

"If you don't control yourself better," 
said the philosopher, between his set 
teeth, " you will soon want a strait- 
waistcoat. Be quiet, will you ? " 

And he shook him as a wiry terrier 
shakes a rat. 

" Let me go ! " 

" I have a good mind to give you 
your co^^p de grace" returned Haldane, 
with a little less composure than be- 
fore. "Why, I could strangle you if I 
pleased." 

" Strangle me, then ! " 

" Bah ! you are not worth the trouble," 
said the other, throwing him off. " Tell 
me .again, where are your police- 



236 



FOXGLOVE MANOR. 



officers ? Why did you not bring 
them ? " 

Utterly conquered and helpless, Sant- 
ley did not reply. Haldane pointed to 
the door. 

" At any rate, get out of this. I am 
going to close my studies and go to 
bed." 

And he proceeded to turn down the 
lamp, previous to blowing it out. 

Santley moved towards the door. As 
he did so, the lamp was extinguished, 
and the chapel left in pitch darkness. 
He groped his way out, and stood wait- 
ing on the threshold. The philosopher 
followed, and they stood together in the 
open darkness. Then Haldane closed 
the door and turned the key. 

" Your way lies yonder, reverend sir," 
he said, pointing towards the avenue. 
" Take my advice and sleep upon it, 



GETHSEMANE. 237 

before you return to arrest me. I will 
keep your secret, if you will keep mine." 

" I will make no terms with you," 
cried the vicar. " I will return, and 
have you dragged to justice." 

" As you please," was the reply. 

Haldane walked slowly in the direction 
of the house. Santley, after a minute's 
wild hesitation, rushed away again into 
the night. 

By this time the snow had ceased 
falling, and the air was a little clearer. 
With little difficulty, Santley found the 
avenue, and, running rather than walk- 
ing, followed it till he reached the lodge. 
As he did so, he heard voices singing in 
merry chorus. He waited, and presently 
a light cart drove up, turning into the 
avenue. He called out, and it stopped. 
He came close, and found that it con- 



238 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

tained five persons, two men and three 
women. 

" Who are you ? " he demanded. 
<( Where are you going ? " 

Mrs. Feme, the lodge-keeper, who 
was one of the party, informed him that 
they were Mr. Haldane's servants, re- 
turning from their holiday excursion to 
the neighbouring town. 

" Go up to the house at once ! " he 
cried. " Seize your master, detain him 
till I return. Your mistress has been 
murdered ! " 

They cried out in terror and astonish- 
ment, asking for particulars. 

" I cannot stay," he answered wildly. 
" Go on, and watch till I return. It is 
as I say ; he has murdered your mis- 
tress. I am going for the police." 

Then he fled on in the direction of 
the village. But as he went, his pace 



GETHSEMANE. 239 

seemed to fail him, and his head to go 
round and round. 

At last he reached the village, 
where all was dark and desolate, and, 
passing by the shadow of his own 
church, reached the Vicarage gate. 
Here he paused, almost spent. He 
could not go any further. He would go 
in and get a little brandy, then he would 
hasten on for assistance. 

He staggered in through the gate, 
and across the garden. There was a 
light in the window, for Miss Santley 
was sitting up for her brother, wonder- 
ing what had kept him so late. He 
crept close to the window and tapped 
upon it. 

" Mary ! Mary ! " he moaned. 

She heard him, looked out, and then 
opened the door, standing on the thres- 
hold with a lighted candle in her hand. 



240 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

At the sight of his blood-stained face 
and disordered dress, she uttered a cry 
of fear. 

As she did so, he stretched out his 
hands, and fell like a corpse across the 
threshold. 



CHAPTER XL. 

THREE LETTERS. 

THEY carried him into the house and 
laid him on a bed ; then, seeing him still 
speechless, and to all appearance sense- 
less, Miss Santley sent for Dr. Spruce, 
who lived close by. By the time that 
the doctor, a homely old country practi- 
tioner, with much professional skill and 
worldly wisdom, entered the chamber, 
Santley was sitting up and talking in- 
coherently. He tried to leave his bed 
and fly forth upon some wild errand, and 
his speech was a confused medley, in 
VOL. in. R 



24 2 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

which the words " murder," " poison," 
and " Ellen Haldane," were constantly 
repeated. He did not seem to recognize 
any one, and his whole appearance was 
alarming in the extreme. 

Miss Santley told how she had found 
him, and in what condition. The doctor 
shook his head. 

" I'm afraid it's brain fever," he 
muttered. "You must keep him very 
quiet." 

Before morning, the doctor's predic- 
tion proved to be right. Brain fever of 
the most violent kind had set in. He 
lay as if at death's door, incoherently 
raving. 

Alarmed by the constant references to 
the one subject of " murder," and the 
constant repetitions of Mrs. Haldane's 
name, Miss Santley next day sent a 
messenger up to Foxglove Manor to 



THREE LETTERS. 2 43 

make inquiries. Her messenger ascer- 
tained from Mrs. Feme, the lodge- 
keeper, that the vicar had been seen by 
the servants the previous night, in a 
state resembling mania, and had told 
them some wild story of Mrs. Haldane's 
death by violence. For the rest, Mrs. 
Feme said, nothing of an extraordinary 
nature had occurred at the Manor, and 
her mistress, though slightly indisposed, 
was up and about. 

So Miss Santley kept watch by the 
delirious man's bedside, while he lay and 
fought for life. 

.The crisis passed. One morning the 
vicar opened his eyes, and saw his 
sister sitting silently close to his bed. 
The fever had almost left him, and 
he recognized his own room in the 
Vicarage. 



244 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

" Is it you, Mary ? " he asked, reach- 
ing out his hand, now worn almost to a 
skeleton. 

" Yes, it is I. But you must not 
speak." 

" Have I been ill, Mary ? " 

"Yes; very, very ill." 

He closed his eyes, and seemed to 
fall into a sleep, which lasted for some 
hours. Suddenly he started up, as if 
listening, and seemed about to spring 
from the bed. 

" What is it, dear ? " asked his sister, 
softly soothing him. 

He recognized her, and became calm 
in a moment. 

" I was dreaming. I thought I was 

y 

up at the Manor. Mary, quick speak 
to me ! Have they buried her ? " 

She looked at him in wonder and 
terror. 



THREE LETTERS. 245 

" Hush, dear ! The doctor says you 
are to keep very quiet." 

" But I must know. Tell me, or you 
will kill me ! What has happened ? 
How long have I been lying here ?" 

" Many days. But you are better 
now." 

" Do you know what has taken place?" 
he whispered. " Ellen Haldane is dead 
murdered ! He killed her." 

She shook her head pityingly. 

" No, no ! Do not distress yourself, 
dear, or you will be ill again. Mrs. 
Haldane is quite well." 

" Quite well ? No, no ! " 

" You have been dreaming, that is 
all." 

" Only dreaming ? " he repeated, 
vacantly. " But I tell you I saw her, 
dead, shrouded for her grave. Mary, it 
must be true ! " 



246 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

She succeeded at last, after repeated 
assurances, in soothing his distracted 
spirit, and he fell asleep again, moaning 
to himself. 

It was quite true, as his sister told 
him, that Mrs. Haldane lived. She did 
not tell him, however, that she had left 
the Manor, with her husband, and gone 
away back to Spain. 

Was it all a dream, then, after all ? 

A week later, when Santley was con- 
valescent, but still horribly overshadowed 
and perplexed, his sister gave him a 
letter, which (she said) had been left for 
him by the master of Foxglove Manor. 
It was marked "strictly private.'' 
Santley waited until he was alone, and 
then, tearing it open with tremulous 
fingers, read as follows : 



THREE LETTERS. 247 

" SIR, 

" I hear that you have been ill. 
Before leaving for Spain, I have left 
this with your sister, with instructions 
that it is to be given you when you are 
strong enough to read and understand. 
What it contains, observe, is strictly 
between you and me ; and if you keep 
your own counsel, no one will know the 
secret of your indisposition but our- 
selves. 

"In the first place, be comforted by 
my assurance that my wife is in excellent 
health. If, in your delirium, you have 
been under delusions concerning her, 
dispel them ; all that has passed. She 
lives ; and you will live. If you have 
thought otherwise (and we know sick 
men have wild fancies), consider that 
you have merely had an extraordinary 
dream. Yet, remembering that men 



248 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

have often ere now been warned by 
visions of calamities to ensue as the 
consequence of their own mad acts, 
accept the dream as a sort of divine 
admonition an inspiration to lead you 
towards a better and calmer life. In 
your dream, sir, you have had your own 
heart vivisected, and have thus been 
made conscious of its disease ; you have 
suffered terribly, as all patients must 
suffer, under the knife. But you will be 
healed. You will begin the world afresh, 
and, God willing, become a new man, 
thanking God, every day you live, that 
it was only a dream. 

" By the time you read this we shall be 
far away. With my sincere hopes for 
your perfect recovery, I am, sir, yours 

truly, 

" GEORGE HALDANE. 

"P.3. My wife knows nothing of your 






THREE LETTERS. 249 

dream, in any of its phenomena. Some 
day, perhaps, I shall enlighten her, but 
not yet. She sends you her best wishes." 

That was all Santley read and re-read 
in amazement, not quite comprehending, 
yet dimly guessing that there had been 
some strange mystery. At last, relieved 
by the thought that all his guilty agony 
had perhaps been a dream indeed, he 
sunk back upon the pillow of his arm- 
chair, and wept aloud. 

That same afternoon, as he sat looking 
at his loving nurse, he questioned her 
concerning Edith. It was the first time, 
since his recovery, that he had mentioned 
her name. 

" Where is she ? Have they heard 
from her ? Is she well ? " 

" She is well, I believe," replied Miss 
Santley. " Just after you fell ill, her 



250 ' FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

aunt heard from her, and went away to 
join her in London. They are there 
together now." 

" Do you know their address ? " 

" Yes ; I heard from Rachel that they 
are staying at the Golden Cross Hotel, 
near the station." 

In the evening, Santley insisted on 
having pen, ink, and paper. His sister 
begged him not to fatigue himself by 
writing, but he was determined. 

" Charles," she said softly, as she 
brought him what he wanted, " is it 
to Edith you are going to write ? " 

" Yes," he replied ; and she stooped 
and kissed him approvingly. Then she 
left him alone, and he wrote as follows : 

" DEAREST EDITH, 

" Come to me ; come back to 
Omberley. I have had a dangerous 



THREE LETTERS. 251 

illness, but through it, God has opened 
my eyes. I love you, darling. We will 
be married at once in the dear old 
church. Yours till death, 

" CHARLES SANTLEY." 

Two days afterwards, the reply came, 
in Ellen's own handwriting, thus : 

" I, too, have had an illness, in which, 
also, God has been pleased to open my 
eyes. I know, now, that it is all over 
between us. I shall never marry you ; 
I shall never return to Omberley. I am 
going abroad with my aunt, who knows 
all I have suffered, and approves an 
eternal separation. 

" EDITH DOVE.'' 

Some months later, the vicar resigned 
his living in the parish, and disappeared 



25 2 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 

from the scene of his early labours. 
The year following, it was publicly stated 
in the religious newspapers that the 
Rev. Charles Santley, sometime Vicar of 
Omberley, had entered the Church of 
Rome. 



THE END. 



I'KINTED DV WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, 
LONDON AND UECCLES. 



[March, 1884. 




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Love Me for Ever 

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Deceivers Ever. 
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Blacksmith and Scholar. 
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You Play me False. 

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Antonlna. 
Basil. 

Hide and Seek. 
The Dead Secret. 
Queen of Hearts. 
My Miscellanies. 
Woman In White. 
The Moonstone. 
Man and Wife. 
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New Magdalen. 
The Frozen Deep. 
The Law and the 

Lady. 

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Jezebel'sDaughter 
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Heart and Science 



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Hearts of Gold. 

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A Castle In Spain. 

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8 



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BY M. BETHAM-EDWARDS. 
Felicia. | Kitty. 

BY MRS. ANNIE EDWARDES. 
Archie Love 1 1. 

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Olympla. | Queen Cophetua. 

One by One. 

Prefaced by Sir BARTLE FRERE. 
Pandurang Harl. 

BY EDWARD GARRETT. 
The Capel Girls. 

BY CHARLES GIBBON. 
Robin Gray. 
For Lack of Gold. 
In Love and War. 
What will the World Say? 
For the King. 
In Honour Bound. 
Queen of the Meadow. 
In Pastures Green. 
The Flower of the Forest. 
A Heart's Problem. 
The Braes of Yarrow. 
The Golden Shaft. 
Of High Degree. 

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Under the Greenwood Tree. 

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Garth. 

Elilce Quentln. 
Sebastian Strom*, 
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Oust. 
Fortune's Fool. 

BY SIR A. HELPS. 
Ivan de Blron. 

BY MRS. ALFRED HUNT. 
Thornicroft's Model. 
The Leaden Casket. 
Self Condemned. 

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Fated to be Free. 

BY HENRY JAMES, Jun. 
Confidence. 

7 HARRIETT JAY. 
The Queen of Connaught 
The Dark Colleen. 

BY HEXRY KINGSLEY, 
Number Seventeen. 
Oakshott Castle. 



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Patricia Kemball. 
Atonement of Learn Dundaa. 
The World Well Lost. 
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The Rebel of the Family. 
" My Love ! " 

BY HENRY W. LUCY. 
Gideon Fleyce. 

BY JUSTIN MCCARTHY, M.P. 

The Waterdale Neighbours. 
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Miss Misanthrope. 
Donna Quixote. 
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Thomas Wingfold, Curate. 

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Quaker Cousins. 

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Lost Rose. | The Evil Eye. 

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Open ! Sesame ! | Written In Fire 

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Touch and Go. 

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Life's Atonement. Coals of Fire. 
Joseph's Coat. Val Strange. 

A Model Father. Hearts. 
By the Gate of the Sea. 

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Whitcladies. 

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Gentle and Simple. 

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Lost Sir Massing- 

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Halves. 

Walter's Word. 
What He Cost Her 
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Valentino. 
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It Is Never Too Late to Mend. 
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Love Me Little, Love Me Long. 
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My Little Girl. 
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The Monks of Thelema. 
'Twas in Trafalgar's Bay. 
The Seamy Side. 
The Ten Years' Tenant. 
The Chaplain of the Fleet. 
All Sorts and Conditions of Men. 
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The Luck of Roaring Camjx 
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The Shadow of the Sword. 
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God and the Man. 
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Love Me for Ever. 

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Deceivers Ever. | Juliet's Guardian 

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The Cure of Souls. 

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The Bar Sinister. 

BY WILKIE COLLINS. 



Miss or Mrs. ? 
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The Frozen Deep. 
Law and the Lady. 



Antonina. 
Basil. 

Hide and Seek. 
The Dead Secret. 
Queen of Hearts. 

My Miscellanies. TheTwoDestlnleV 
Woman In White. Haunted Hotel. 
The Moonstone. The Fallen Leaves. 
Man and Wife. Jezebel'sDaughter 
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BY MORTIMER COLLINS. 

Sweet Anne Page. 

Transmigration. 

From Midnight to Midnight. 

A Fight with Fortune. 
MORTIMER & FRANCES COLLINS. 

Sweet and Twenty. | Frances. 

Blacksmith and Scholar. 

The Village Comedy. 

You Play me False. 

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Leo. | Paul Foster's Daughter. 

BY J. LEITH DERWENT. 
Our Lady of Tears. 

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Sketches by Boz. 
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Oliver Twist. 
Nicholas Nlckleby. 
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A Point of Honour. | Archie Lovell. 

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Felicia. | Kitty. 

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Roxy 



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Polly. 

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Filthy Lucre. 

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Olympla. | Queen Cophetua. 

One by One. 

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BY HAIN FRISWELL. 
One of Two. 

BY EDWARD GARRETT. 
The Capel Girls. 

BY CHARLES GIBBON. 



Queen of the Mea. 

dow. 

In Pastures Green 
The Flower of the 

Forest. 

A Heart's Problem 
The Braes of Yar- 
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Robin Gray. 
For Lack of Gold. 
What will the 

World Say? 
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In Love and War. 
For the King. 

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Dr. Austin's Guests. 
The Wizard of the Mountain. 
James Duke 

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Dick Temple. 

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Paul Wynter's Sacrifice. 

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Under the Greenwood Tree. 

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Garth. I Sebastian Strom* 

;lllce Quentln. | Dust. 
Prince Saronl's Wife. 

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Ivan de Biron. 

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A Golden Heart. 

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The House of Raby. 

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The Hunchback of Notre Dame. 



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Thornicroft's Model. 
The Leaden Casket. 
Self Condemned. 

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Fated to be Free. 

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The Dark Colleen. 
The Queen of Connaught. 

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Oakshott Castle. | Number Seventeen 

BY E. LYNN LINTON. 
Patricia Kemball. 
The Atonement of Lcam Duncias. 
The World Well Lost. 
Under which Lord ? 
With a Silken Thread. 
The Rebel of the Family. 
" My Love ! " 

BY HENRY W. LUCY. 
Gideon Fleyce. 

BY JUSTIN MCCARTHY, M.P. 

Dear Lady Disdain. 

The Waterdale Neighbours. 

My Enemy's Daughter. 

A Fair Saxon. 

Llnley Rochford. 

Miss Misanthrope. 

Donna Quixote. 

The Comet of a Season. 

BY GEORGE MACDONALD. 
Paul Faber, Surgeon. 
Thomas Wlngfold, Curate. 

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Quaker Cousins. 

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The Evil Eye. | Lost Rose. 

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The New Republic. 

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Open! Sesame! 
A Harvest of Wild 
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A Little Stepson. 
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Written In Fire. 



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Half-a-dozen Daughters. 

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Touch and Go. | Mr. Dorllllon. 



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A Life's Atonement. 
A Model Father. 
Joseph's Coat. 
Coals of Fire. 
By the Gate of the Sea. 

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Whlteladles. 

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Phoebe's Fortunes. 

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Held In Bondage. 

Strathmore. 

Chandos. 

Under Two Flags. 

Idalla. 

Cecil Castle- 

malne. 
Tricotrln. 
Puck. 

Folle Farlne. 
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Pascarel. 



TwoLlttleWooden 
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Slgna. 

In a Winter City. 

Ariadne. 

Friendship. 

Moths. 

Pipistrello. 

A Village Com- 
mune. 

Blmbl. 

In Maremma. 



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Gentle and Simple. 

BY JAMES PAYN. 



Lost Sir Massing- 
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A Perfect Trea- 
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Bentlnck's Tutor. 

Murphy's Master. 

A County Family. 

At Her Mercy. 

A Woman's Ven- 
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ClyfTards of Clyffe 

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Foster Brothers. 

Found Dead. 

Best of Husbands 

Walter's Word. 

Halves. 

Fallen Fortunes. 

What He Cost Her 

Humorous Stories 

Gwendoline's Har- 
vest. 

BY EDGAR A. FOB. 
The Mystery of Marie Roget. 



Like Father, Like 

Son. 

A Marine Resi- 
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Married Beneath 

Him. 

Mirk Abbey. 
Not Wooed, but 

Won. 

200 Reward. 
Less Black than 

We're Painted. 
By Proxy. 
Under One Roof. 
High Spirits. 
Carlyon's Year. 
A Confidential 

Agent. 
Some Private 

Views. 
From Exile. 
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CHEAP POPULAR NOVELS, continued 

BY E. C. PRICE. 
Valentlna. 

By CHARLES READS. 
It Is Never Too Late to Mend. 
Hard Cash. 
Peg Wofflngton. 
Christie Johnstone. 
Griffith Gaunt. 
Put Yourself In His Place. 
The Double Marriage. 
Love Me Little, Love Me Long. 
Foul Play. 

The Cloister and the Hearth. 
The Course of True Love. 
Autobiography of a Thief. 
A Terrible Temptation. 
The Wandering Help. 
A Simpleton. 
A Woman-Hater. 
Readiana. 

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Her Mother's Darling. 
Prince of Wales's Garden Party. 

BY F. W. ROBINSON. 
Women are Strange. 

BY BAYLE ST. JOHN. 
A Levantine Family. 

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Gaslight and Daylight. 

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Bound to the Wheel. 
One Against the World. 
Guy Waterman. 
The Lion In the Path. 
Two Dreamers. 

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A Match In the Dark. 

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The Mysteries of Heron Dyke. 

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The Afghan Knife. 

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New Arabian Nights. 

BY BERTHA THOMAS. 
Oressida. | Proud Malslfl. 

The Violin-Player. 

BY W. MOY THOMAS. 
A Fight for Life. 



CHEAP POPULAR NOVELS, continued 

BY WALTER THORNBURY. 
Tales for the Marines. 
BY T. ADOLPHUS TROLLOPS. 
Diamond Cut Diamond. 

BY ANTHONY TROLLOPS. 
The Way We Live Now. 
The American Senator. 
Frau Frohmann. || 

Marlon Fay. 
Kept In the Dark. 

By FRANCES ELEANOR TROLLOPS 
Like Ships Upon the Sea. 
BY MARK TWAIN. 
Tom Sawyer. 
An Idle Excursion. 
A Pleasure Trip on the Continent 

of Europe. 
A Tramp Abroad. 
The Stolen White Elephant. 
BY SARAH TYTLER. 
What She Came Through. 
The Bride's Pass. 

BY J. S. WINTER. 
Cavalry Life. | Regimental Legends. 

BY LADY WOOD. 
Sablna. 

BY EDMUND YATES. 
Castaway. | The Forlorn Hopa. 
Land at Last. 

ANONYMOUS. 
Paul Ferroll. 
Why Paul Ferroll Killed his Wife. 

Fcap. 8vo, picture covers, Is. each. 
Jeff Briggs's Love Story. By BRET 

HARTE. 
The Twins of Table Mountain. By 

BRET HARTE. 
Mrs. Gainsborough's Diamonds. By 

JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 
Kathleen Mavourneen. By Author 

of " That Lass o' Lowrie's." 
Lindsay's Luck. By the Author of 

" That Lass o' Lowrie's." 
Pretty Polly Pemberton. By the 

Author of "That Lass o' Lowrie's." 
Trooping with Crows. By Mrs. 

PlRKIS. 

The Professor's Wife. By LEONARD 
GRAHAM. 

A Double Bond. By LINDA VILLARI. 
Esther's Glove. By R. E. FRANCILLON. 
The Garden that Paid the Rent. 
By TOM JERROLD. 



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