LITMIR.BIZ

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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 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.”

      He yielded almost instantly to my old mastery over him, and, with a respectful 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.

      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 mistaken if he imagined that his doings 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 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 lessening 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 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 sometimes 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 aunts warning; for she had expected it a long time, and had been rather surprised 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 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 replied: —

      “There is no scandal, aunt! Mr. Santley – ”

      “I have no patience with him. In a minister of the gospel, it is disgraceful.”

      “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.”

      With a quiet impulse of tenderness, Edith bent over her aunt and kissed her. The old lady looked up in surprise, 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 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 Haldanes 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 recognized 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, you may toss your bead, 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?

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