Foxglove Manor, Volume III (of III). Robert W Buchanan
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Foxglove Manor, Volume III (of III) / A Novel
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 congregation.
Though several times of late she has suggested that a little church-going 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 indications, I have made a discovery. My wife, despite her purity, despite her lofty sense of honour, is jealous of the clergyman.
The day after my fishing expedition, I quietly told her what I had seen in the woodland. It was not without due deliberation that I determined to do so. One portion of the truth, however, I carefully concealed: namely, the references 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 unsuspiciously. “Something terrible, I suppose; like Dr. Dupré’s elixir?”
“Oh dear no, nothing nearly so scientific; 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.
“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?”
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 matchmaker, produce the dénouement. 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!”
“There must be some mistake. I am sure Mr. Santley would do nothing dishonourable. As to marrying, his 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 difficult. 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 misunderstood. I have no doubt, after all, that what you saw could be easily explained; 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: —
“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. Possibly 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
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, 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, senor; 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 again at the Manor,