III. THE EVENTS OF EIGHT DAYS
1. FROM THE TWENTY-SECOND TO THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF JULY
But things are not what they seem. A responsive love for EdwardSpringrove had made its appearance in Cytherea's bosom with all thefascinating attributes of a first experience, not succeeding to ordisplacing other emotions, as in older hearts, but taking up entirelynew ground; as when gazing just after sunset at the pale blue sky we seea star come into existence where nothing was before.
His parting words, 'Don't forget me,' she repeated to herself a hundredtimes, and though she thought their import was probably commonplace, shecould not help toying with them,--looking at them from all points,and investing them with meanings of love and faithfulness,--ostensiblyentertaining such meanings only as fables wherewith to pass the time,yet in her heart admitting, for detached instants, a possibility oftheir deeper truth. And thus, for hours after he had left her, herreason flirted with her fancy as a kitten will sport with a dove,pleasantly and smoothly through easy attitudes, but disclosing its crueland unyielding nature at crises.
To turn now to the more material media through which this story moves,it so happened that the very next morning brought round a circumstancewhich, slight in itself, took up a relevant and important positionbetween the past and the future of the persons herein concerned.
At breakfast time, just as Cytherea had again seen the postman passwithout bringing her an answer to the advertisement, as she had fullyexpected he would do, Owen entered the room.
'Well,' he said, kissing her, 'you have not been alarmed, of course.Springrove told you what I had done, and you found there was no train?'
'Yes, it was all clear. But what is the lameness owing to?'
'I don't know--nothing. It has quite gone off now... Cytherea, I hopeyou like Springrove. Springrove's a nice fellow, you know.'
'Yes. I think he is, except that--'
'It happened just to the purpose that I should meet him there, didn'tit? And when I reached the station and learnt that I could not get on bytrain my foot seemed better. I started off to walk home, and went aboutfive miles along a path beside the railway. It then struck me that Imight not be fit for anything to-day if I walked and aggravated thebothering foot, so I looked for a place to sleep at. There wasno available village or inn, and I eventually got the keeper of agate-house, where a lane crossed the line, to take me in.'
They proceeded with their breakfast. Owen yawned.
'You didn't get much sleep at the gate-house last night, I'm afraid,Owen,' said his sister.
'To tell the truth, I didn't. I was in such very close and narrowquarters. Those gate-houses are such small places, and the man hadonly his own bed to offer me. Ah, by-the-bye, Cythie, I have such anextraordinary thing to tell you in connection with this man!--by Jove,I had nearly forgotten it! But I'll go straight on. As I was saying,he had only his own bed to offer me, but I could not afford to befastidious, and as he had a hearty manner, though a very queer one, Iagreed to accept it, and he made a rough pallet for himself on the floorclose beside me. Well, I could not sleep for my life, and I wished I hadnot stayed there, though I was so tired. For one thing, there were theluggage trains rattling by at my elbow the early part of the night. Butworse than this, he talked continually in his sleep, and occasionallystruck out with his limbs at something or another, knocking against thepost of the bedstead and making it tremble. My condition was altogetherso unsatisfactory that at last I awoke him, and asked him what he hadbeen dreaming about for the previous hour, for I could get no sleep atall. He begged my pardon for disturbing me, but a name I had casuallylet fall that evening had led him to think of another stranger he hadonce had visit him, who had also accidentally mentioned the same name,and some very strange incidents connected with that meeting. The affairhad occurred years and years ago; but what I had said had made him thinkand dream about it as if it were but yesterday. What was the word? Isaid. "Cytherea," he said. What was the story? I asked then. He thentold me that when he was a young man in London he borrowed a few poundsto add to a few he had saved up, and opened a little inn at Hammersmith.One evening, after the inn had been open about a couple of months,every idler in the neighbourhood ran off to Westminster. The Houses ofParliament were on fire.
'Not a soul remained in his parlour besides himself, and he beganpicking up the pipes and glasses his customers had hastily relinquished.At length a young lady about seventeen or eighteen came in. She askedif a woman was there waiting for herself--Miss Jane Taylor. He said no;asked the young lady if she would wait, and showed her into the smallinner room. There was a glass-pane in the partition dividing this roomfrom the bar to enable the landlord to see if his visitors, who satthere, wanted anything. A curious awkwardness and melancholy about thebehaviour of the girl who called, caused my informant to look frequentlyat her through the partition. She seemed weary of her life, and sat withher face buried in her hands, evidently quite out of her element insuch a house. Then a woman much older came in and greeted Miss Taylor byname. The man distinctly heard the following words pass between them:--
'"Why have you not brought him?"
'"He is ill; he is not likely to live through the night."
'At this announcement from the elderly woman, the young lady fell to thefloor in a swoon, apparently overcome by the news. The landlord ran inand lifted her up. Well, do what they would they could not for a longtime bring her back to consciousness, and began to be much alarmed. "Whois she?" the innkeeper said to the other woman. "I know her," the othersaid, with deep meaning in her tone. The elderly and young woman seemedallied, and yet strangers.
'She now showed signs of life, and it struck him (he was plainly of aninquisitive turn), that in her half-bewildered state he might get someinformation from her. He stooped over her, put his mouth to her ear,and said sharply, "What's your name?" "To catch a woman nappingis difficult, even when she's half dead; but I did it," says thegatekeeper. When he asked her her name, she said immediately--
'"Cytherea"--and stopped suddenly.'
'My own name!' said Cytherea.
'Yes--your name. Well, the gateman thought at the time it might beequally with Jane a name she had invented for the occasion, that theymight not trace her; but I think it was truth unconsciously uttered,for she added directly afterwards: "O, what have I said!" and was quiteovercome again--this time with fright. Her vexation that the woman nowdoubted the genuineness of her other name was very much greater thanthat the innkeeper did, and it is evident that to blind the woman washer main object. He also learnt from words the elderly woman casuallydropped, that meetings of the same kind had been held before, and thatthe falseness of the soi-disant Miss Jane Taylor's name had never beensuspected by this dependent or confederate till then.
'She recovered, rested there for an hour, and first sending off hercompanion peremptorily (which was another odd thing), she left thehouse, offering the landlord all the money she had to say nothing aboutthe circumstance. He has never seen her since, according to hisown account. I said to him again and again, "Did you find any moreparticulars afterwards?" "Not a syllable," he said. O, he should neverhear any more of that! too many years had passed since it happened. "Atany rate, you found out her surname?" I said. "Well, well, that's mysecret," he went on. "Perhaps I should never have been in this part ofthe world if it hadn't been for that. I failed as a publican, you know."I imagine the situation of gateman was given him and his debts paid offas a bribe to silence; but I can't say. "Ah, yes!" he said, with a longbreath. "I have never heard that name mentioned since that time tillto-night, and then there instantly rose to my eyes the vision of thatyoung lady lying in a fainting fit." He then stopped talking and fellasleep. Telling the story must have relieved him as it did the AncientMariner, for he did not move a muscle or make another sound for theremainder of the night. Now isn't that an odd story?'
'It is indeed,' Cytherea murmured. 'Very, very strange.'
'Why should she have said your most uncommon name?' continued Owen. '
Theman was evidently truthful, for there was not motive sufficient for hisinvention of such a tale, and he could not have done it either.'
Cytherea looked long at her brother. 'Don't you recognize anything elsein connection with the story?' she said.
'What?' he asked.
'Do you remember what poor papa once let drop--that Cytherea wasthe name of his first sweetheart in Bloomsbury, who so mysteriouslyrenounced him? A sort of intuition tells me that this was the samewoman.'
'O no--not likely,' said her brother sceptically.
'How not likely, Owen? There's not another woman of the name in England.In what year used papa to say the event took place?'
'Eighteen hundred and thirty-five.'
'And when were the Houses of Parliament burnt?--stop, I can tell you.'She searched their little stock of books for a list of dates, and foundone in an old school history.
'The Houses of Parliament were burnt down in the evening of thesixteenth of October, eighteen hundred and thirty-four.'
'Nearly a year and a quarter before she met father,' remarked Owen.
They were silent. 'If papa had been alive, what a wonderful absorbinginterest this story would have had for him,' said Cytherea by-and-by.'And how strangely knowledge comes to us. We might have searched for aclue to her secret half the world over, and never found one. If we hadreally had any motive for trying to discover more of the sad historythan papa told us, we should have gone to Bloomsbury; but not caring todo so, we go two hundred miles in the opposite direction, and therefind information waiting to be told us. What could have been the secret,Owen?'
'Heaven knows. But our having heard a little more of her in this way (ifshe is the same woman) is a mere coincidence after all--a family storyto tell our friends if we ever have any. But we shall never know anymore of the episode now--trust our fates for that.'
Cytherea sat silently thinking.
'There was no answer this morning to your advertisement, Cytherea?' hecontinued.
'None.'
'I could see that by your looks when I came in.'
'Fancy not getting a single one,' she said sadly. 'Surely there must bepeople somewhere who want governesses?'
'Yes; but those who want them, and can afford to have them, get themmostly by friends' recommendations; whilst those who want them, andcan't afford to have them, make use of their poor relations.'
'What shall I do?'
'Never mind it. Go on living with me. Don't let the difficulty troubleyour mind so; you think about it all day. I can keep you, Cythie, in aplain way of living. Twenty-five shillings a week do not amount tomuch truly; but then many mechanics have no more, and we live quite assparingly as journeymen mechanics... It is a meagre narrow life we aredrifting into,' he added gloomily, 'but it is a degree more tolerablethan the worrying sensation of all the world being ashamed of you, whichwe experienced at Hocbridge.'
'I couldn't go back there again,' she said.
'Nor I. O, I don't regret our course for a moment. We did quite right indropping out of the world.' The sneering tones of the remark were almosttoo laboured to be real. 'Besides,' he continued, 'something better forme is sure to turn up soon. I wish my engagement here was a permanentone instead of for only two months. It may, certainly, be for a longertime, but all is uncertain.'
'I wish I could get something to do; and I must too,' she said firmly.'Suppose, as is very probable, you are not wanted after the beginning ofOctober--the time Mr. Gradfield mentioned--what should we do if I weredependent on you only throughout the winter?'
They pondered on numerous schemes by which a young lady might besupposed to earn a decent livelihood--more or less convenient andfeasible in imagination, but relinquished them all until advertising hadbeen once more tried, this time taking lower ground. Cytherea was vexedat her temerity in having represented to the world that so inexperienceda being as herself was a qualified governess; and had a fancy that thispresumption of hers might be one reason why no ladies applied. The newand humbler attempt appeared in the following form:--
'NURSERY GOVERNESS OR USEFUL COMPANION. A young person wishes to hear of a situation in either of the above capacities. Salary very moderate. She is a good needle-woman--Address G., 3 Cross Street, Budmouth.'
In the evening they went to post the letter, and then walked up and downthe Parade for a while. Soon they met Springrove, said a few wordsto him, and passed on. Owen noticed that his sister's face had becomecrimson. Rather oddly they met Springrove again in a few minutes. Thistime the three walked a little way together, Edward ostensibly talkingto Owen, though with a single thought to the reception of his words bythe maiden at the farther side, upon whom his gaze was mostly resting,and who was attentively listening--looking fixedly upon the pavement thewhile. It has been said that men love with their eyes; women with theirears.
As Owen and himself were little more than acquaintances as yet, and asSpringrove was wanting in the assurance of many men of his age, it nowbecame necessary to wish his friends good-evening, or to find a reasonfor continuing near Cytherea by saying some nice new thing. He thoughtof a new thing; he proposed a pull across the bay. This was assentedto. They went to the pier; stepped into one of the gaily painted boatsmoored alongside and sheered off. Cytherea sat in the stern steering.
They rowed that evening; the next came, and with it the necessity ofrowing again. Then the next, and the next, Cytherea always sitting inthe stern with the tiller ropes in her hand. The curves of her figurewelded with those of the fragile boat in perfect continuation, as shegirlishly yielded herself to its heaving and sinking, seeming to formwith it an organic whole.
Then Owen was inclined to test his skill in paddling a canoe. Edwarddid not like canoes, and the issue was, that, having seen Owen on board,Springrove proposed to pull off after him with a pair of sculls; butnot considering himself sufficiently accomplished to do finished rowingbefore a parade full of promenaders when there was a little swell on,and with the rudder unshipped in addition, he begged that Cytherea mightcome with him and steer as before. She stepped in, and they floatedalong in the wake of her brother. Thus passed the fifth evening on thewater.
But the sympathetic pair were thrown into still closer companionship,and much more exclusive connection.
2. JULY THE TWENTY-NINTH
It was a sad time for Cytherea--the last day of Springrove's managementat Gradfield's, and the last evening before his return from Budmouth tohis father's house, previous to his departure for London.
Graye had been requested by the architect to survey a plot of landnearly twenty miles off, which, with the journey to and fro, wouldoccupy him the whole day, and prevent his returning till late in theevening. Cytherea made a companion of her landlady to the extent ofsharing meals and sitting with her during the morning of herbrother's absence. Mid-day found her restless and miserable under thisarrangement. All the afternoon she sat alone, looking out of the windowfor she scarcely knew whom, and hoping she scarcely knew what. Half-pastfive o'clock came--the end of Springrove's official day. Two minuteslater Springrove walked by.
She endured her solitude for another half-hour, and then could endure nolonger. She had hoped--while affecting to fear--that Edward would havefound some reason or other for calling, but it seemed that he had not.Hastily dressing herself she went out, when the farce of an accidentalmeeting was repeated. Edward came upon her in the street at the firstturning, and, like the Great Duke Ferdinand in 'The Statue and theBust'--
'He looked at her as a lover can; She looked at him as one who awakes-- The past was a sleep, and her life began.'
'Shall we have a boat?' he said impulsively.
How blissful it all is at first. Perhaps, indeed, the only bliss inthe course of love which can truly be called Eden-like is that whichprevails immediately after doubt has ended and before reflection has setin--at the dawn of the emotion, when it is not recognized by name, andbefore the consideration of what this love is, has given birth to theconsideration of what difficultie
s it tends to create; when on the man'spart, the mistress appears to the mind's eye in picturesque, hazy, andfresh morning lights, and soft morning shadows; when, as yet, she isknown only as the wearer of one dress, which shares her own personality;as the stander in one special position, the giver of one brightparticular glance, and the speaker of one tender sentence; when, onher part, she is timidly careful over what she says and does, lest sheshould be misconstrued or under-rated to the breadth of a shadow of ahair.
'Shall we have a boat?' he said again, more softly, seeing that tohis first question she had not answered, but looked uncertainly at theground, then almost, but not quite, in his face, blushed a series ofminute blushes, left off in the midst of them, and showed the usualsigns of perplexity in a matter of the emotions.
Owen had always been with her before, but there was now a force of habitin the proceeding, and with Arcadian innocence she assumed that a row onthe water was, under any circumstances, a natural thing. Without anotherword being spoken on either side, they went down the steps. He carefullyhanded her in, took his seat, slid noiselessly off the sand, and awayfrom the shore.
They thus sat facing each other in the graceful yellow cockle-shell,and his eyes frequently found a resting-place in the depths of hers. Theboat was so small that at each return of the sculls, when his hands cameforward to begin the pull, they approached so near to her that her vividimagination began to thrill her with a fancy that he was going to clasphis arms round her. The sensation grew so strong that she could not runthe risk of again meeting his eyes at those critical moments, and turnedaside to inspect the distant horizon then she grew weary of lookingsideways, and was driven to return to her natural position again. Atthis instant he again leant forward to begin, and met her glance byan ardent fixed gaze. An involuntary impulse of girlish embarrassmentcaused her to give a vehement pull at the tiller-rope, which brought theboat's head round till they stood directly for shore.
His eyes, which had dwelt upon her form during the whole time of herlook askance, now left her; he perceived the direction in which theywere going.
'Why, you have completely turned the boat, Miss Graye?' he said, lookingover his shoulder. 'Look at our track on the water--a great semicircle,preceded by a series of zigzags as far as we can see.'
She looked attentively. 'Is it my fault or yours?' she inquired. 'Mine,I suppose?'
'I can't help saying that it is yours.'
She dropped the ropes decisively, feeling the slightest twinge ofvexation at the answer.
'Why do you let go?'
'I do it so badly.'
'O no; you turned about for shore in a masterly way. Do you wish toreturn?'
'Yes, if you please.'
'Of course, then, I will at once.'
'I fear what the people will think of us--going in such absurddirections, and all through my wretched steering.'
'Never mind what the people think.' A pause. 'You surely are not so weakas to mind what the people think on such a matter as that?'
Those words might almost be called too firm and hard to be given by himto her; but never mind. For almost the first time in her life she feltthe charming sensation, although on such an insignificant subject, ofbeing compelled into an opinion by a man she loved. Owen, thoughless yielding physically, and more practical, would not have had theintellectual independence to answer a woman thus. She replied quietlyand honestly--as honestly as when she had stated the contrary fact aminute earlier--
'I don't mind.'
'I'll unship the tiller that you may have nothing to do going back butto hold your parasol,' he continued, and arose to perform the operation,necessarily leaning closely against her, to guard against the riskof capsizing the boat as he reached his hands astern. His warm breathtouched and crept round her face like a caress; but he was apparentlyonly concerned with his task. She looked guilty of something when heseated himself. He read in her face what that something was--she hadexperienced a pleasure from his touch. But he flung a practical glanceover his shoulder, seized the oars, and they sped in a straight linetowards the shore.
Cytherea saw that he noted in her face what had passed in her heart,and that noting it, he continued as decided as before. She was inwardlydistressed. She had not meant him to translate her words about returninghome so literally at the first; she had not intended him to learn hersecret; but more than all she was not able to endure the perception ofhis learning it and continuing unmoved.
There was nothing but misery to come now. They would step ashore; hewould say good-night, go to London to-morrow, and the miserable Shewould lose him for ever. She did not quite suppose what was the fact,that a parallel thought was simultaneously passing through his mind.
They were now within ten yards, now within five; he was only now waitingfor a 'smooth' to bring the boat in. Sweet, sweet Love must not beslain thus, was the fair maid's reasoning. She was equal to theoccasion--ladies are--and delivered the god--
'Do you want very much to land, Mr. Springrove?' she said, letting heryoung violet eyes pine at him a very, very little.
'I? Not at all,' said he, looking an astonishment at her inquiry which aslight twinkle of his eye half belied. 'But you do?'
'I think that now we have come out, and it is such a pleasant evening,'she said gently and sweetly, 'I should like a little longer row if youdon't mind? I'll try to steer better than before if it makes it easierfor you. I'll try very hard.'
It was the turn of his face to tell a tale now. He looked, 'Weunderstand each other--ah, we do, darling!' turned the boat, and pulledback into the Bay once more.
'Now steer wherever you will,' he said, in a low voice. 'Never mind thedirectness of the course--wherever you will.'
'Shall it be Creston Shore?' she said, pointing to a stretch of beachnorthward from Budmouth Esplanade.
'Creston Shore certainly,' he responded, grasping the sculls. She tookthe strings daintily, and they wound away to the left.
For a long time nothing was audible in the boat but the regular dipof the oars, and their movement in the rowlocks. Springrove at lengthspoke.
'I must go away to-morrow,' he said tentatively.
'Yes,' she replied faintly.
'To endeavour to advance a little in my profession in London.'
'Yes,' she said again, with the same preoccupied softness.
'But I shan't advance.'
'Why not? Architecture is a bewitching profession. They say that anarchitect's work is another man's play.'
'Yes. But worldly advantage from an art doesn't depend upon masteringit. I used to think it did; but it doesn't. Those who get rich need haveno skill at all as artists.'
'What need they have?'
'A certain kind of energy which men with any fondness for art possessvery seldom indeed--an earnestness in making acquaintances, and a lovefor using them. They give their whole attention to the art ofdining out, after mastering a few rudimentary facts to serve up inconversation. Now after saying that, do I seem a man likely to make aname?'
'You seem a man likely to make a mistake.'
'What's that?'
'To give too much room to the latent feeling which is rather commonin these days among the unappreciated, that because some remarkablysuccessful men are fools, all remarkably unsuccessful men are geniuses.'
'Pretty subtle for a young lady,' he said slowly. 'From that remark Ishould fancy you had bought experience.'
She passed over the idea. 'Do try to succeed,' she said, with wistfulthoughtfulness, leaving her eyes on him.
Springrove flushed a little at the earnestness of her words, and mused.'Then, like Cato the Censor, I shall do what I despise, to be in thefashion,' he said at last... 'Well, when I found all this out that Iwas speaking of, what ever do you think I did? From having alreadyloved verse passionately, I went on to read it continually; then I wentrhyming myself. If anything on earth ruins a man for useful occupation,and for content with reasonable success in a profession or trade, it isthe habit of writing verses on emotiona
l subjects, which had much betterbe left to die from want of nourishment.'
'Do you write poems now?' she said.
'None. Poetical days are getting past with me, according to the usualrule. Writing rhymes is a stage people of my sort pass through, as theypass through the stage of shaving for a beard, or thinking they areill-used, or saying there's nothing in the world worth living for.'
'Then the difference between a common man and a recognized poet is, thatone has been deluded, and cured of his delusion, and the other continuesdeluded all his days.'
'Well, there's just enough truth in what you say, to make the remarkunbearable. However, it doesn't matter to me now that I "meditate thethankless Muse" no longer, but....' He paused, as if endeavouring tothink what better thing he did.
Cytherea's mind ran on to the succeeding lines of the poem, and theirstartling harmony with the present situation suggested the fancy that hewas 'sporting' with her, and brought an awkward contemplativeness to herface.
Springrove guessed her thoughts, and in answer to them simply said'Yes.' Then they were silent again.
'If I had known an Amaryllis was coming here, I should not have madearrangements for leaving,' he resumed.
Such levity, superimposed on the notion of 'sport', was intolerable toCytherea; for a woman seems never to see any but the serious side of herattachment, though the most devoted lover has all the time a vague anddim perception that he is losing his old dignity and frittering away histime.
'But will you not try again to get on in your profession? Try oncemore; do try once more,' she murmured. 'I am going to try again. I haveadvertised for something to do.'
'Of course I will,' he said, with an eager gesture and smile. 'But wemust remember that the fame of Christopher Wren himself depended uponthe accident of a fire in Pudding Lane. My successes seem to come veryslowly. I often think, that before I am ready to live, it will be timefor me to die. However, I am trying--not for fame now, but for an easylife of reasonable comfort.'
It is a melancholy truth for the middle classes, that in proportionas they develop, by the study of poetry and art, their capacity forconjugal love of the highest and purest kind, they limit the possibilityof their being able to exercise it--the very act putting out of theirpower the attainment of means sufficient for marriage. The man who worksup a good income has had no time to learn love to its solemn extreme;the man who has learnt that has had no time to get rich.
'And if you should fail--utterly fail to get that reasonable wealth,'she said earnestly, 'don't be perturbed. The truly great stand upon nomiddle ledge; they are either famous or unknown.'
'Unknown,' he said, 'if their ideas have been allowed to flow witha sympathetic breadth. Famous only if they have been convergent andexclusive.'
'Yes; and I am afraid from that, that my remark was but discouragement,wearing the dress of comfort. Perhaps I was not quite right in--'
'It depends entirely upon what is meant by being truly great. But thelong and the short of the matter is, that men must stick to a thing ifthey want to succeed in it--not giving way to over-much admirationfor the flowers they see growing in other people's borders; which I amafraid has been my case.' He looked into the far distance and paused.
Adherence to a course with persistence sufficient to ensure success ispossible to widely appreciative minds only when there is also foundin them a power--commonplace in its nature, but rare in suchcombination--the power of assuming to conviction that in the outlyingpaths which appear so much more brilliant than their own, there arebitternesses equally great--unperceived simply on account of theirremoteness.
They were opposite Ringsworth Shore. The cliffs here were formed ofstrata completely contrasting with those of the further side of the Bay,whilst in and beneath the water hard boulders had taken the place ofsand and shingle, between which, however, the sea glided noiselessly,without breaking the crest of a single wave, so strikingly calm was theair. The breeze had entirely died away, leaving the water of that rareglassy smoothness which is unmarked even by the small dimples of theleast aerial movement. Purples and blues of divers shades were reflectedfrom this mirror accordingly as each undulation sloped east or west.They could see the rocky bottom some twenty feet beneath them,luxuriant with weeds of various growths, and dotted with pulpy creaturesreflecting a silvery and spangled radiance upwards to their eyes.
At length she looked at him to learn the effect of her words ofencouragement. He had let the oars drift alongside, and the boat hadcome to a standstill. Everything on earth seemed taking a contemplativerest, as if waiting to hear the avowal of something from his lips. Atthat instant he appeared to break a resolution hitherto zealously kept.Leaving his seat amidships he came and gently edged himself down besideher upon the narrow seat at the stern.
She breathed more quickly and warmly: he took her right hand in his ownright: it was not withdrawn. He put his left hand behind her neck tillit came round upon her left cheek: it was not thrust away. Lightlypressing her, he brought her face and mouth towards his own; when, atthis the very brink, some unaccountable thought or spell within himsuddenly made him halt--even now, and as it seemed as much to himself asto her, he timidly whispered 'May I?'
Her endeavour was to say No, so denuded of its flesh and sinews that itsnature would hardly be recognized, or in other words a No from so nearthe affirmative frontier as to be affected with the Yes accent. It wasthus a whispered No, drawn out to nearly a quarter of a minute's length,the O making itself audible as a sound like the spring coo of a pigeonon unusually friendly terms with its mate. Though conscious of hersuccess in producing the kind of word she had wished to produce, she atthe same time trembled in suspense as to how it would be taken. But thetime available for doubt was so short as to admit of scarcely more thanhalf a pulsation: pressing closer he kissed her. Then he kissed heragain with a longer kiss.
It was the supremely happy moment of their experience. The 'bloom' andthe 'purple light' were strong on the lineaments of both. Their heartscould hardly believe the evidence of their lips.
'I love you, and you love me, Cytherea!' he whispered.
She did not deny it; and all seemed well. The gentle sounds around themfrom the hills, the plains, the distant town, the adjacent shore, thewater heaving at their side, the kiss, and the long kiss, were all 'manya voice of one delight,' and in unison with each other.
But his mind flew back to the same unpleasant thought which had beenconnected with the resolution he had broken a minute or two earlier. 'Icould be a slave at my profession to win you, Cytherea; I would work atthe meanest, honest trade to be near you--much less claim you as mine; Iwould--anything. But I have not told you all; it is not this; you don'tknow what there is yet to tell. Could you forgive as you can love?' Shewas alarmed to see that he had become pale with the question.
'No--do not speak,' he said. 'I have kept something from you, which hasnow become the cause of a great uneasiness. I had no right--to love you;but I did it. Something forbade--'
'What?' she exclaimed.
'Something forbade me--till the kiss--yes, till the kiss came; and nownothing shall forbid it! We'll hope in spite of all... I must, however,speak of this love of ours to your brother. Dearest, you had better goindoors whilst I meet him at the station, and explain everything.'
Cytherea's short-lived bliss was dead and gone. O, if she had known ofthis sequel would she have allowed him to break down the barrier of mereacquaintanceship--never, never!
'Will you not explain to me?' she faintly urged. Doubt--indefinite,carking doubt had taken possession of her.
'Not now. You alarm yourself unnecessarily,' he said tenderly. 'My onlyreason for keeping silence is that with my present knowledge I may tellan untrue story. It may be that there is nothing to tell. I am to blamefor haste in alluding to any such thing. Forgive me, sweet--forgive me.'Her heart was ready to burst, and she could not answer him. He returnedto his place and took to the oars.
They again made for the distant Esplanade, now,
with its line of houses,lying like a dark grey band against the light western sky. The sunhad set, and a star or two began to peep out. They drew nearer theirdestination, Edward as he pulled tracing listlessly with his eyes thered stripes upon her scarf, which grew to appear as black ones in theincreasing dusk of evening. She surveyed the long line of lamps on thesea-wall of the town, now looking small and yellow, and seeming to sendlong tap-roots of fire quivering down deep into the sea. By-and-by theyreached the landing-steps. He took her hand as before, and found it ascold as the water about them. It was not relinquished till he reachedher door. His assurance had not removed the constraint of her manner:he saw that she blamed him mutely and with her eyes, like a capturedsparrow. Left alone, he went and seated himself in a chair on theEsplanade.
Neither could she go indoors to her solitary room, feeling as she didin such a state of desperate heaviness. When Springrove was out of sightshe turned back, and arrived at the corner just in time to see himsit down. Then she glided pensively along the pavement behind him,forgetting herself to marble like Melancholy herself as she mused in hisneighbourhood unseen. She heard, without heeding, the notes of pianosand singing voices from the fashionable houses at her back, from theopen windows of which the lamp-light streamed to join that of theorange-hued full moon, newly risen over the Bay in front. Then Edwardbegan to pace up and down, and Cytherea, fearing that he would noticeher, hastened homeward, flinging him a last look as she passed out ofsight. No promise from him to write: no request that she herself woulddo so--nothing but an indefinite expression of hope in the face of somefear unknown to her. Alas, alas!
When Owen returned he found she was not in the small sitting-room, andcreeping upstairs into her bedroom with a light, he discovered her therelying asleep upon the coverlet of the bed, still with her hat andjacket on. She had flung herself down on entering, and succumbed tothe unwonted oppressiveness that ever attends full-blown love. The wettraces of tears were yet visible upon her long drooping lashes.
'Love is a sowre delight, and sugred griefe, A living death, and ever-dying life.'
'Cytherea,' he whispered, kissing her. She awoke with a start, andvented an exclamation before recovering her judgment. 'He's gone!' shesaid.
'He has told me all,' said Graye soothingly. 'He is going off earlyto-morrow morning. 'Twas a shame of him to win you away from me, andcruel of you to keep the growth of this attachment a secret.'
'We couldn't help it,' she said, and then jumping up--'Owen, has he toldyou _all_?'
'All of your love from beginning to end,' he said simply.
Edward then had not told more--as he ought to have done: yet she couldnot convict him. But she would struggle against his fetters. She tingledto the very soles of her feet at the very possibility that he might bedeluding her.
'Owen,' she continued, with dignity, 'what is he to me? Nothing. I mustdismiss such weakness as this--believe me, I will. Something far morepressing must drive it away. I have been looking my position steadilyin the face, and I must get a living somehow. I mean to advertise oncemore.'
'Advertising is no use.'
'This one will be.' He looked surprised at the sanguine tone of heranswer, till she took a piece of paper from the table and showed it him.'See what I am going to do,' she said sadly, almost bitterly. This washer third effort:--
'LADY'S-MAID. Inexperienced. Age eighteen.--G., 3 Cross Street, Budmouth.'
Owen--Owen the respectable--looked blank astonishment. He repeated in anameless, varying tone, the two words--
'Lady's-maid!'
'Yes; lady's-maid. 'Tis an honest profession,' said Cytherea bravely.
'But _you_, Cytherea?'
'Yes, I--who am I?'
'You will never be a lady's-maid--never, I am quite sure.'
'I shall try to be, at any rate.'
'Such a disgrace--'
'Nonsense! I maintain that it is no disgrace!' she said, rather warmly.'You know very well--'
'Well, since you will, you must,' he interrupted. 'Why do you put"inexperienced?"'
'Because I am.'
'Never mind that--scratch out "inexperienced." We are poor, Cytherea,aren't we?' he murmured, after a silence, 'and it seems that the twomonths will close my engagement here.'
'We can put up with being poor,' she said, 'if they only give us workto do.... Yes, we desire as a blessing what was given us as a curse, andeven that is denied. However, be cheerful, Owen, and never mind!'
In justice to desponding men, it is as well to remember that thebrighter endurance of women at these epochs--invaluable, sweet, angelic,as it is--owes more of its origin to a narrower vision that shuts outmany of the leaden-eyed despairs in the van, than to a hopefulnessintense enough to quell them.