Desperate Remedies

  VIII. THE EVENTS OF EIGHTEEN DAYS

  1. FROM THE THIRD TO THE NINETEENTH OF SEPTEMBER

  Miss Aldclyffe's tenderness towards Cytherea, between the hours of herirascibility, increased till it became no less than doting fondness.Like Nature in the tropics, with her hurricanes and the subsequentluxuriant vegetation effacing their ravages, Miss Aldclyffe compensatedfor her outbursts by excess of generosity afterwards. She seemed to becompletely won out of herself by close contact with a young woman whosemodesty was absolutely unimpaired, and whose artlessness was as perfectas was compatible with the complexity necessary to produce the due charmof womanhood. Cytherea, on her part, perceived with honest satisfactionthat her influence for good over Miss Aldclyffe was considerable. Ideasand habits peculiar to the younger, which the elder lady had originallyimitated as a mere whim, she grew in course of time to take a positivedelight in. Among others were evening and morning prayers, dreaming overout-door scenes, learning a verse from some poem whilst dressing.

  Yet try to force her sympathies as much as she would, Cytherea couldfeel no more than thankful for this, even if she always felt as muchas thankful. The mysterious cloud hanging over the past life of hercompanion, of which the uncertain light already thrown upon it onlyseemed to render still darker the unpenetrated remainder, nourishedin her a feeling which was scarcely too slight to be called dread. Shewould have infinitely preferred to be treated distantly, as the meredependent, by such a changeable nature--like a fountain, alwaysherself, yet always another. That a crime of any deep dye had ever beenperpetrated or participated in by her namesake, she would not believe;but the reckless adventuring of the lady's youth seemed connected withdeeds of darkness rather than of light.

  Sometimes Miss Aldclyffe appeared to be on the point of making someabsorbing confidence, but reflection invariably restrained her. Cythereahoped that such a confidence would come with time, and that she mightthus be a means of soothing a mind which had obviously known extremesuffering.

  But Miss Aldclyffe's reticence concerning her past was not imitated byCytherea. Though she never disclosed the one fact of her knowledgethat the love-suit between Miss Aldclyffe and her father terminatedabnormally, the maiden's natural ingenuousness on subjects not set downfor special guard had enabled Miss Aldclyffe to worm from her, fragmentby fragment, every detail of her father's history. Cytherea saw howdeeply Miss Aldclyffe sympathized--and it compensated her, to someextent, for the hasty resentments of other times.

  Thus uncertainly she lived on. It was perceived by the servants of theHouse that some secret bond of connection existed between Miss Aldclyffeand her companion. But they were woman and woman, not woman and man, thefacts were ethereal and refined, and so they could not be worked upinto a taking story. Whether, as old critics disputed, a supernaturalmachinery be necessary to an epic or no, an ungodly machinery isdecidedly necessary to a scandal.

  Another letter had come to her from Edward--very short, but full ofentreaty, asking why she would not write just one line--just one line ofcold friendship at least? She then allowed herself to think, little bylittle, whether she had not perhaps been too harsh with him; and at lastwondered if he were really much to blame for being engaged to anotherwoman. 'Ah, Brain, there is one in me stronger than you!' she said. Theyoung maid now continually pulled out his letter, read it and re-readit, almost crying with pity the while, to think what wretched suspensehe must be enduring at her silence, till her heart chid her for hercruelty. She felt that she must send him a line--one little line--just awee line to keep him alive, poor thing; sighing like Donna Clara--

  'Ah, were he now before me, In spite of injured pride, I fear my eyes would pardon Before my tongue could chide.'

  2. SEPTEMBER THE TWENTIETH. THREE TO FOUR P.M.

  It was the third week in September, about five weeks after Cytherea'sarrival, when Miss Aldclyffe requested her one day to go through thevillage of Carriford and assist herself in collecting the subscriptionsmade by some of the inhabitants of the parish to a religious societyshe patronized. Miss Aldclyffe formed one of what was called a Ladies'Association, each member of which collected tributary streams ofshillings from her inferiors, to add to her own pound at the end.

  Miss Aldclyffe took particular interest in Cytherea's appearance thatafternoon, and the object of her attention was, indeed, gratifyingto look at. The sight of the lithe girl, set off by an airy dress,coquettish jacket, flexible hat, a ray of starlight in each eye and awar of lilies and roses in each cheek, was a palpable pleasure to themistress of the mansion, yet a pleasure which appeared to partake lessof the nature of affectionate satisfaction than of mental gratification.

  Eight names were printed in the report as belonging to Miss Aldclyffe'slist, with the amount of subscription-money attached to each.

  'I will collect the first four, whilst you do the same with the lastfour,' said Miss Aldclyffe.

  The names of two tradespeople stood first in Cytherea's share: then camea Miss Hinton: last of all in the printed list was Mr. Springrovethe elder. Underneath his name was pencilled, in Miss Aldclyffe'shandwriting, 'Mr. Manston.'

  Manston had arrived on the estate, in the capacity of steward, three orfour days previously, and occupied the old manor-house, which had beenaltered and repaired for his reception.

  'Call on Mr. Manston,' said the lady impressively, looking at the namewritten under Cytherea's portion of the list.

  'But he does not subscribe yet?'

  'I know it; but call and leave him a report. Don't forget it.'

  'Say you would be pleased if he would subscribe?'

  'Yes--say I should be pleased if he would,' repeated Miss Aldclyffe,smiling. 'Good-bye. Don't hurry in your walk. If you can't get easilythrough your task to-day put off some of it till to-morrow.'

  Each then started on her rounds: Cytherea going in the first place tothe old manor-house. Mr. Manston was not indoors, which was a reliefto her. She called then on the two gentleman-farmers' wives, whosoon transacted their business with her, frigidly indifferent to herpersonality. A person who socially is nothing is thought less of bypeople who are not much than by those who are a great deal.

  She then turned towards Peakhill Cottage, the residence of Miss Hinton,who lived there happily enough, with an elderly servant and a house-dogas companions. Her father, and last remaining parent, had retiredthither four years before this time, after having filled the post ofeditor to the Casterbridge Chronicle for eighteen or twenty years. Therehe died soon after, and though comparatively a poor man, he left hisdaughter sufficiently well provided for as a modest fundholder andclaimant of sundry small sums in dividends to maintain herself asmistress at Peakhill.

  At Cytherea's knock an inner door was heard to open and close, andfootsteps crossed the passage hesitatingly. The next minute Cythereastood face to face with the lady herself.

  Adelaide Hinton was about nine-and-twenty years of age. Her hairwas plentiful, like Cytherea's own; her teeth equalled Cytherea's inregularity and whiteness. But she was much paler, and had featurestoo transparent to be in place among household surroundings. Her mouthexpressed love less forcibly than Cytherea's, and, as a natural resultof her greater maturity, her tread was less elastic, and she was moreself-possessed.

  She had been a girl of that kind which mothers praise as not forward, byway of contrast, when disparaging those warmer ones with whom loving isan end and not a means. Men of forty, too, said of her, 'a good sensiblewife for any man, if she cares to marry,' the caring to marry beingthrown in as the vaguest hypothesis, because she was so practical.Yet it would be singular if, in such cases, the important subject ofmarriage should be excluded from manipulation by hands that are readyfor practical performance in every domestic concern besides.

  Cytherea was an acquisition, and the greeting was hearty.

  'Good afternoon! O yes--Miss Graye, from Miss Aldclyffe's. I have seenyou at church, and I am so glad you have called! Come in. I wonder if Ihave change enough to pay my subscr
iption.' She spoke girlishly.

  Adelaide, when in the company of a younger woman, always levelledherself down to that younger woman's age from a sense of justice toherself--as if, though not her own age at common law, it was in equity.

  'It doesn't matter. I'll come again.'

  'Yes, do at any time; not only on this errand. But you must step in fora minute. Do.'

  'I have been wanting to come for several weeks.'

  'That's right. Now you must see my house--lonely, isn't it, for a singleperson? People said it was odd for a young woman like me to keep on ahouse; but what did I care? If you knew the pleasure of locking up yourown door, with the sensation that you reigned supreme inside it, youwould say it was worth the risk of being called odd. Mr. Springroveattends to my gardening, the dog attends to robbers, and whenever thereis a snake or toad to kill, Jane does it.'

  'How nice! It is better than living in a town.'

  'Far better. A town makes a cynic of me.'

  The remark recalled, somewhat startlingly, to Cytherea's mind, thatEdward had used those very words to herself one evening at Budmouth.

  Miss Hinton opened an interior door and led her visitor into a smalldrawing-room commanding a view of the country for miles.

  The missionary business was soon settled; but the chat continued.

  'How lonely it must be here at night!' said Cytherea. 'Aren't youafraid?'

  'At first I was, slightly. But I got used to the solitude. And you knowa sort of commonsense will creep even into timidity. I say to myselfsometimes at night, "If I were anybody but a harmless woman, not worththe trouble of a worm's ghost to appear to me, I should think that everysound I hear was a spirit." But you must see all over my house.'

  Cytherea was highly interested in seeing.

  'I say you _must_ do this, and you _must_ do that, as if you were achild,' remarked Adelaide. 'A privileged friend of mine tells me thisuse of the imperative comes of being so constantly in nobody's societybut my own.'

  'Ah, yes. I suppose she is right.'

  Cytherea called the friend 'she' by a rule of ladylike practice; for awoman's 'friend' is delicately assumed by another friend to be of theirown sex in the absence of knowledge to the contrary; just as cats arecalled she's until they prove themselves he's.

  Miss Hinton laughed mysteriously.

  'I get a humorous reproof for it now and then, I assure you,' shecontinued.

  '"Humorous reproof:" that's not from a woman: who can reprove humorouslybut a man?' was the groove of Cytherea's thought at the remark. 'Yourbrother reproves you, I expect,' said that innocent young lady.

  'No,' said Miss Hinton, with a candid air. ''Tis only a professional manI am acquainted with.' She looked out of the window.

  Women are persistently imitative. No sooner did a thought flashthrough Cytherea's mind that the man was a lover than she became a MissAldclyffe in a mild form.

  'I imagine he's a lover,' she said.

  Miss Hinton smiled a smile of experience in that line.

  Few women, if taxed with having an admirer, are so free from vanityas to deny the impeachment, even if it is utterly untrue. When it doeshappen to be true, they look pityingly away from the person who is sobenighted as to have got no further than suspecting it.

  'There now--Miss Hinton you are engaged to be married!' said Cythereaaccusingly.

  Adelaide nodded her head practically. 'Well, yes, I am,' she said.

  The word 'engaged' had no sooner passed Cytherea's lips than the soundof it--the mere sound of her own lips--carried her mind to the time andcircumstances under which Miss Aldclyffe had used it towards herself.A sickening thought followed--based but on a mere surmise; yet itspresence took every other idea away from Cytherea's mind. Miss Hintonhad used Edward's words about towns; she mentioned Mr. Springrove asattending to her garden. It could not be that Edward was the man! thatMiss Aldclyffe had planned to reveal her rival thus!

  'Are you going to be married soon?' she inquired, with a steadiness theresult of a sort of fascination, but apparently of indifference.

  'Not very soon--still, soon.'

  'Ah-ha! In less than three months?' said Cytherea.

  'Two.'

  Now that the subject was well in hand, Adelaide wanted no moreprompting. 'You won't tell anybody if I show you something?' she said,with eager mystery.

  'O no, nobody. But does he live in this parish?'

  'No.'

  Nothing proved yet.

  'What's his name?' said Cytherea flatly. Her breath and heart had beguntheir old tricks, and came and went hotly. Miss Hinton could not see herface.

  'What do you think?' said Miss Hinton.

  'George?' said Cytherea, with deceitful agony.

  'No,' said Adelaide. 'But now, you shall see him first; come here;'and she led the way upstairs into her bedroom. There, standing on thedressing table in a little frame, was the unconscious portrait of EdwardSpringrove.

  'There he is,' Miss Hinton said, and a silence ensued.

  'Are you very fond of him?' continued the miserable Cytherea at length.

  'Yes, of course I am,' her companion replied, but in the tone of one who'lived in Abraham's bosom all the year,' and was therefore untouched bysolemn thought at the fact. 'He's my cousin--a native of this village.We were engaged before my father's death left me so lonely. I was onlytwenty, and a much greater belle than I am now. We know each otherthoroughly, as you may imagine. I give him a little sermonizing now andthen.'

  'Why?'

  'O, it's only in fun. He's very naughty sometimes--not really, youknow--but he will look at any pretty face when he sees it.'

  Storing up this statement of his susceptibility as another item tobe miserable upon when she had time, 'How do you know that?' Cythereaasked, with a swelling heart.

  'Well, you know how things do come to women's ears. He used to live atBudmouth as an assistant-architect, and I found out that a young giddything of a girl who lives there somewhere took his fancy for a dayor two. But I don't feel jealous at all--our engagement is somatter-of-fact that neither of us can be jealous. And it was a mereflirtation--she was too silly for him. He's fond of rowing, and kindlygave her an airing for an evening or two. I'll warrant they talked themost unmitigated rubbish under the sun--all shallowness and pastime,just as everything is at watering places--neither of them caring a bitfor the other--she giggling like a goose all the time--'

  Concentrated essence of woman pervaded the room rather than air.'She _didn't_! and it _wasn't_ shallowness!' Cytherea burst out, withbrimming eyes. ''Twas deep deceit on one side, and entire confidenceon the other--yes, it was!' The pent-up emotion had swollen and swolleninside the young thing till the dam could no longer embay it. Theinstant the words were out she would have given worlds to have been ableto recall them.

  'Do you know her--or him?' said Miss Hinton, starting with suspicion atthe warmth shown.

  The two rivals had now lost their personality quite. There was the samekeen brightness of eye, the same movement of the mouth, the same mindin both, as they looked doubtingly and excitedly at each other. As isinvariably the case with women when a man they care for is the subjectof an excitement among them, the situation abstracted the differenceswhich distinguished them as individuals, and left only the propertiescommon to them as atoms of a sex.

  Cytherea caught at the chance afforded her of not betraying herself.'Yes, I know her,' she said.

  'Well,' said Miss Hinton, 'I am really vexed if my speaking so lightlyof any friend of yours has hurt your feelings, but--'

  'O, never mind,' Cytherea returned; 'it doesn't matter, Miss Hinton. Ithink I must leave you now. I have to call at other places. Yes--I mustgo.'

  Miss Hinton, in a perplexed state of mind, showed her visitor politelydownstairs to the door. Here Cytherea bade her a hurried adieu, andflitted down the garden into the lane.

  She persevered in her duties with a wayward pleasure in giving herselfmisery, as was her wont. Mr. Springrove's name was next on the list, andsh
e turned towards his dwelling, the Three Tranters Inn.

  3. FOUR TO FIVE P.M.

  The cottages along Carriford village street were not so close but thaton one side or other of the road was always a hedge of hawthorn orprivet, over or through which could be seen gardens or orchards richwith produce. It was about the middle of the early apple-harvest, andthe laden trees were shaken at intervals by the gatherers; the softpattering of the falling crop upon the grassy ground being diversifiedby the loud rattle of vagrant ones upon a rail, hencoop, basket,or lean-to roof, or upon the rounded and stooping backs of thecollectors--mostly children, who would have cried bitterly at receivingsuch a smart blow from any other quarter, but smilingly assumed it to bebut fun in apples.

  The Three Tranters Inn, a many-gabled, mediaeval building, constructedalmost entirely of timber, plaster, and thatch, stood close to the lineof the roadside, almost opposite the churchyard, and was connectedwith a row of cottages on the left by thatched outbuildings. It was anuncommonly characteristic and handsome specimen of the genuine roadsideinn of bygone times; and standing on one of the great highways in thispart of England, had in its time been the scene of as much of what isnow looked upon as the romantic and genial experience of stage-coachtravelling as any halting-place in the country. The railway had absorbedthe whole stream of traffic which formerly flowed through the villageand along by the ancient door of the inn, reducing the empty-handedlandlord, who used only to farm a few fields at the back of the house,to the necessity of eking out his attenuated income by increasing theextent of his agricultural business if he would still maintain hissocial standing. Next to the general stillness pervading the spot, thelong line of outbuildings adjoining the house was the most striking andsaddening witness to the passed-away fortunes of the Three Tranters Inn.It was the bulk of the original stabling, and where once the hoofs oftwo-score horses had daily rattled over the stony yard, to and from thestalls within, thick grass now grew, whilst the line of roofs--once sostraight--over the decayed stalls, had sunk into vast hollows till theyseemed like the cheeks of toothless age.

  On a green plot at the other end of the building grew two orthree large, wide-spreading elm-trees, from which the sign wassuspended--representing the three men called tranters (irregularcarriers), standing side by side, and exactly alike to a hair's-breadth,the grain of the wood and joints of the boards being visible through thethin paint depicting their forms, which were still further disfigured byred stains running downwards from the rusty nails above.

  Under the trees now stood a cider-mill and press, and upon the spotsheltered by the boughs were gathered Mr. Springrove himself, his men,the parish clerk, two or three other men, grinders and supernumeraries,a woman with an infant in her arms, a flock of pigeons, and some littleboys with straws in their mouths, endeavouring, whenever the men's backswere turned, to get a sip of the sweet juice issuing from the vat.

  Edward Springrove the elder, the landlord, now more particularly afarmer, and for two months in the year a cider-maker, was an employer oflabour of the old school, who worked himself among his men. He was nowengaged in packing the pomace into horsehair bags with a rammer, andGad Weedy, his man, was occupied in shovelling up more from a tub athis side. The shovel shone like silver from the action of the juice,and ever and anon, in its motion to and fro, caught the rays of thedeclining sun and reflected them in bristling stars of light.

  Mr. Springrove had been too young a man when the pristine days of theThree Tranters had departed for ever to have much of the host left inhim now. He was a poet with a rough skin: one whose sturdiness wasmore the result of external circumstances than of intrinsic nature. Tookindly constituted to be very provident, he was yet not imprudent.He had a quiet humorousness of disposition, not out of keeping with afrequent melancholy, the general expression of his countenance being oneof abstraction. Like Walt Whitman he felt as his years increased--

  'I foresee too much; it means more than I thought.'

  On the present occasion he wore gaiters and a leathern apron, and workedwith his shirt-sleeves rolled up beyond his elbows, disclosing solid andfleshy rather than muscular arms. They were stained by the cider, andtwo or three brown apple-pips from the pomace he was handling were to beseen sticking on them here and there.

  The other prominent figure was that of Richard Crickett, the parishclerk, a kind of Bowdlerized rake, who ate only as much as a woman,and had the rheumatism in his left hand. The remainder of the group,brown-faced peasants, wore smock-frocks embroidered on the shoulderswith hearts and diamonds, and were girt round their middle with a strap,another being worn round the right wrist.

  'And have you seen the steward, Mr. Springrove?' said the clerk.

  'Just a glimpse of him; but 'twas just enough to show me that he's nothere for long.'

  'Why mid that be?'

  'He'll never stand the vagaries of the female figure holden thereins--not he.'

  'She d' pay en well,' said a grinder; 'and money's money.'

  'Ah--'tis: very much so,' the clerk replied.

  'Yes, yes, naibour Crickett,' said Springrove, 'but she'll vlee in apassion--all the fat will be in the fire--and there's an end o't....Yes, she is a one,' continued the farmer, resting, raising his eyes, andreading the features of a distant apple.

  'She is,' said Gad, resting too (it is wonderful how prompt a journeymanis in following his master's initiative to rest) and reflectivelyregarding the ground in front of him.

  'True: a one is she,' the clerk chimed in, shaking his head ominously.

  'She has such a temper,' said the farmer, 'and is so wilful too. You mayas well try to stop a footpath as stop her when she has taken anythinginto her head. I'd as soon grind little green crabs all day as live wi'her.'

  ''Tis a temper she hev, 'tis,' the clerk replied, 'though I be a servantof the Church that say it. But she isn't goen to flee in a passion thistime.'

  The audience waited for the continuation of the speech, as if they knewfrom experience the exact distance off it lay in the future.

  The clerk swallowed nothing as if it were a great deal, and then wenton, 'There's some'at between 'em: mark my words, naibours--there'ssome'at between 'em.'

  'D'ye mean it?'

  'I d' know it. He came last Saturday, didn't he?'

  ''A did, truly,' said Gad Weedy, at the same time taking an apple fromthe hopper of the mill, eating a piece, and flinging back the remainderto be ground up for cider.

  'He went to church a-Sunday,' said the clerk again.

  ''A did.'

  'And she kept her eye upon en all the service, her face flickerenbetween red and white, but never stoppen at either.'

  Mr. Springrove nodded, and went to the press.

  'Well,' said the clerk, 'you don't call her the kind o' woman to makemistakes in just trotten through the weekly service o' God? Why, as arule she's as right as I be myself.'

  Mr. Springrove nodded again, and gave a twist to the screw of the press,followed in the movement by Gad at the other side; the two grindersexpressing by looks of the greatest concern that, if Miss Aldclyffe wereas right at church as the clerk, she must be right indeed.

  'Yes, as right in the service o' God as I be myself,' repeated theclerk. 'But last Sunday, when we were in the tenth commandment, saysshe, "Incline our hearts to keep this law," says she, when 'twas "Lawsin our hearts, we beseech Thee," all the church through. Her eye wasupon _him_--she was quite lost--"Hearts to keep this law," says she; shewas no more than a mere shadder at that tenth time--a mere shadder. Youmi't ha' mouthed across to her "Laws in our hearts we beseech Thee,"fifty times over--she'd never ha' noticed ye. She's in love wi' the man,that's what she is.'

  'Then she's a bigger stunpoll than I took her for,' said Mr. Springrove.'Why, she's old enough to be his mother.'

  'The row'll be between her and that young Curlywig, you'll see. Shewon't run the risk of that pretty face be-en near.'

  'Clerk Crickett, I d' fancy you d' know everything about everybody,'said Gad.

>   'Well so's,' said the clerk modestly. 'I do know a little. It comes tome.'

  'And I d' know where from.'

  'Ah.'

  'That wife o' thine. She's an entertainen woman, not to speakdisrespectful.'

  'She is: and a winnen one. Look at the husbands she've had--God blessher!'

  'I wonder you could stand third in that list, Clerk Crickett,' said Mr.Springrove.

  'Well, 't has been a power o' marvel to myself oftentimes. Yes,matrimony do begin wi' "Dearly beloved," and ends wi' "Amazement," asthe prayer-book says. But what could I do, naibour Springrove? 'Twasordained to be. Well do I call to mind what your poor lady said to mewhen I had just married. "Ah, Mr. Crickett," says she, "your wife willsoon settle you as she did her other two: here's a glass o' rum, forI shan't see your poor face this time next year." I swallered the rum,called again next year, and said, "Mrs. Springrove, you gave me a glasso' rum last year because I was going to die--here I be alive still, yousee." "Well said, clerk! Here's two glasses for you now, then," saysshe. "Thank you, mem," I said, and swallered the rum. Well, dang my oldsides, next year I thought I'd call again and get three. And call I did.But she wouldn't give me a drop o' the commonest. "No, clerk," saysshe, "you be too tough for a woman's pity."... Ah, poor soul, 'twas trueenough! Here be I, that was expected to die, alive and hard as a nail,you see, and there's she moulderen in her grave.'

  'I used to think 'twas your wife's fate not to have a liven husband whenI zid 'em die off so,' said Gad.

  'Fate? Bless thy simplicity, so 'twas her fate; but she struggled tohave one, and would, and did. Fate's nothen beside a woman's schemen!'

  'I suppose, then, that Fate is a He, like us, and the Lord, and the resto' 'em up above there,' said Gad, lifting his eyes to the sky.

  'Hullo! Here's the young woman comen that we were a-talken aboutby-now,' said a grinder, suddenly interrupting. 'She's comen up here, asI be alive!'

  The two grinders stood and regarded Cytherea as if she had been a shiptacking into a harbour, nearly stopping the mill in their new interest.

  'Stylish accoutrements about the head and shoulders, to my thinken,'said the clerk. 'Sheenen curls, and plenty o' em.'

  'If there's one kind of pride more excusable than another in a youngwoman, 'tis being proud of her hair,' said Mr. Springrove.

  'Dear man!--the pride there is only a small piece o' the whole. Iwarrant now, though she can show such a figure, she ha'n't a stick o'furniture to call her own.'

  'Come, Clerk Crickett, let the maid be a maid while she is a maid,' saidFarmer Springrove chivalrously.

  'O,' replied the servant of the Church; 'I've nothen to say againstit--O no:

  '"The chimney-sweeper's daughter Sue As I have heard declare, O, Although she's neither sock nor shoe Will curl and deck her hair, O."'

  Cytherea was rather disconcerted at finding that the gradual cessationof the chopping of the mill was on her account, and still more when shesaw all the cider-makers' eyes fixed upon her except Mr. Springrove's,whose natural delicacy restrained him. She neared the plot of grass, butinstead of advancing further, hesitated on its border.

  Mr. Springrove perceived her embarrassment, which was relieved when shesaw his old-established figure coming across to her, wiping his hands inhis apron.

  'I know your errand, missie,' he said, 'and am glad to see you, andattend to it. I'll step indoors.'

  'If you are busy I am in no hurry for a minute or two,' said Cytherea.

  'Then if so be you really wouldn't mind, we'll wring down this lastfilling to let it drain all night?'

  'Not at all. I like to see you.'

  'We are only just grinding down the early pickthongs and griffins,'continued the farmer, in a half-apologetic tone for detaining byhis cider-making any well-dressed woman. 'They rot as black as achimney-crook if we keep 'em till the regulars turn in.' As he spoke hewent back to the press, Cytherea keeping at his elbow. 'I'm later thanI should have been by rights,' he continued, taking up a lever forpropelling the screw, and beckoning to the men to come forward.'The truth is, my son Edward had promised to come to-day, and I madepreparations; but instead of him comes a letter: "London, September theeighteenth, Dear Father," says he, and went on to tell me he couldn't.It threw me out a bit.'

  'Of course,' said Cytherea.

  'He's got a place 'a b'lieve?' said the clerk, drawing near.

  'No, poor mortal fellow, no. He tried for this one here, you know, butcouldn't manage to get it. I don't know the rights o' the matter, butwilly-nilly they wouldn't have him for steward. Now mates, form inline.'

  Springrove, the clerk, the grinders, and Gad, all ranged themselvesbehind the lever of the screw, and walked round like soldiers wheeling.

  'The man that the old quean hev got is a man you can hardly get uponyour tongue to gainsay, by the look o' en,' rejoined Clerk Crickett.

  'One o' them people that can contrive to be thought no worse o' forstealen a horse than another man for looken over hedge at en,' said agrinder.

  'Well, he's all there as steward, and is quite the gentleman--no doubtabout that.'

  'So would my Ted ha' been, for the matter o' that,' the farmer said.

  'That's true: 'a would, sir.'

  'I said, I'll give Ted a good education if it do cost me my eyes, and Iwould have done it.'

  'Ay, that you would so,' said the chorus of assistants solemnly.

  'But he took to books and drawing naturally, and cost very little;and as a wind-up the womenfolk hatched up a match between him and hiscousin.'

  'When's the wedden to be, Mr. Springrove?'

  'Uncertain--but soon, I suppose. Edward, you see, can do anything prettynearly, and yet can't get a straightforward living. I wish sometimes Ihad kept him here, and let professions go. But he was such a one for thepencil.'

  He dropped the lever in the hedge, and turned to his visitor.

  'Now then, missie, if you'll come indoors, please.'

  Gad Weedy looked with a placid criticism at Cytherea as she withdrewwith the farmer.

  'I could tell by the tongue o' her that she didn't take her degrees inour county,' he said in an undertone.

  'The railways have left you lonely here,' she observed, when they wereindoors.

  Save the withered old flies, which were quite tame from the solitude,not a being was in the house. Nobody seemed to have entered it since thelast passenger had been called out to mount the last stage-coach thathad run by.

  'Yes, the Inn and I seem almost a pair of fossils,' the farmer replied,looking at the room and then at himself.

  'O, Mr. Springrove,' said Cytherea, suddenly recollecting herself; 'I ammuch obliged to you for recommending me to Miss Aldclyffe.' She began towarm towards the old man; there was in him a gentleness of dispositionwhich reminded her of her own father.

  'Recommending? Not at all, miss. Ted--that's my son--Ted said afellow-draughtsman of his had a sister who wanted to be doing somethingin the world, and I mentioned it to the housekeeper, that's all. Ay, Imiss my son very much.'

  She kept her back to the window that he might not see her rising colour.

  'Yes,' he continued, 'sometimes I can't help feeling uneasy about him.You know, he seems not made for a town life exactly: he gets very queerover it sometimes, I think. Perhaps he'll be better when he's married toAdelaide.'

  A half-impatient feeling arose in her, like that which possesses asick person when he hears a recently-struck hour struck again by a slowclock. She had lived further on.

  'Everything depends upon whether he loves her,' she said tremulously.

  'He used to--he doesn't show it so much now; but that's because he'solder. You see, it was several years ago they first walked together asyoung man and young woman. She's altered too from what she was when hefirst courted her.'

  'How, sir?'

  'O, she's more sensible by half. When he used to write to her she'dcreep up the lane and look back over her shoulder, and slide out theletter, and read a word and s
tand in thought looking at the hills andseeing none. Then the cuckoo would cry--away the letter would slip, andshe'd start wi' fright at the mere bird, and have a red skin before thequickest man among ye could say, "Blood rush up."'

  He came forward with the money and dropped it into her hand. Histhoughts were still with Edward, and he absently took her little fingersin his as he said, earnestly and ingenuously--

  ''Tis so seldom I get a gentlewoman to speak to that I can't helpspeaking to you, Miss Graye, on my fears for Edward; I sometimes amafraid that he'll never get on--that he'll die poor and despised underthe worst mental conditions, a keen sense of having been passed in therace by men whose brains are nothing to his own, all through his seeingtoo far into things--being discontented with make-shifts--thinking o'perfection in things, and then sickened that there's no such thing asperfection. I shan't be sorry to see him marry, since it may settle himdown and do him good.... Ay, we'll hope for the best.'

  He let go her hand and accompanied her to the door saying, 'If youshould care to walk this way and talk to an old man once now and then,it will be a great delight to him, Miss Graye. Good-evening to ye.... Ahlook! a thunderstorm is brewing--be quick home. Or shall I step up withyou?'

  'No, thank you, Mr. Springrove. Good evening,' she said in a low voice,and hurried away. One thought still possessed her; Edward had trifledwith her love.

  4. FIVE TO SIX P.M.

  She followed the road into a bower of trees, overhanging it so denselythat the pass appeared like a rabbit's burrow, and presently reached aside entrance to the park. The clouds rose more rapidly than thefarmer had anticipated: the sheep moved in a trail, and complainedincoherently. Livid grey shades, like those of the modern Frenchpainters, made a mystery of the remote and dark parts of the vista, andseemed to insist upon a suspension of breath. Before she was half-wayacross the park the thunder rumbled distinctly.

  The direction in which she had to go would take her close by the oldmanor-house. The air was perfectly still, and between each low rumble ofthe thunder behind she could hear the roar of the waterfall before her,and the creak of the engine among the bushes hard by it. Hurrying on,with a growing dread of the gloom and of the approaching storm, she drewnear the Old House, now rising before her against the dark foliage andsky in tones of strange whiteness.

  On the flight of steps, which descended from a terrace in front to thelevel of the park, stood a man. He appeared, partly from the relief theposition gave to his figure, and partly from fact, to be of toweringheight. He was dark in outline, and was looking at the sky, with hishands behind him.

  It was necessary for Cytherea to pass directly across the line of hisfront. She felt so reluctant to do this, that she was about to turnunder the trees out of the path and enter it again at a point beyondthe Old House; but he had seen her, and she came on mechanically,unconsciously averting her face a little, and dropping her glance to theground.

  Her eyes unswervingly lingered along the path until they fell uponanother path branching in a right line from the path she was pursuing.It came from the steps of the Old House. 'I am exactly opposite himnow,' she thought, 'and his eyes are going through me.'

  A clear masculine voice said, at the same instant--

  'Are you afraid?'

  She, interpreting his question by her feelings at the moment, assumedhimself to be the object of fear, if any. 'I don't think I am,' shestammered.

  He seemed to know that she thought in that sense.

  'Of the thunder, I mean,' he said; 'not of myself.'

  She must turn to him now. 'I think it is going to rain,' she remarkedfor the sake of saying something.

  He could not conceal his surprise and admiration of her face andbearing. He said courteously, 'It may possibly not rain before you reachthe House, if you are going there?'

  'Yes, I am,'

  'May I walk up with you? It is lonely under the trees.'

  'No.' Fearing his courtesy arose from a belief that he was addressing awoman of higher station than was hers, she added, 'I am Miss Aldclyffe'scompanion. I don't mind the loneliness.'

  'O, Miss Aldclyffe's companion. Then will you be kind enough to take asubscription to her? She sent to me this afternoon to ask me to becomea subscriber to her Society, and I was out. Of course I'll subscribe ifshe wishes it. I take a great interest in the Society.'

  'Miss Aldclyffe will be glad to hear that, I know.'

  'Yes; let me see--what Society did she say it was? I am afraid I haven'tenough money in my pocket, and yet it would be a satisfaction to her tohave practical proof of my willingness. I'll get it, and be out in oneminute.'

  He entered the house and was at her side again within the time he hadnamed. 'This is it,' he said pleasantly.

  She held up her hand. The soft tips of his fingers brushed the palm ofher glove as he placed the money within it. She wondered why his fingersshould have touched her.

  'I think after all,' he continued, 'that the rain is upon us, and willdrench you before you reach the House. Yes: see there.'

  He pointed to a round wet spot as large as a nasturtium leaf, which hadsuddenly appeared upon the white surface of the step.

  'You had better come into the porch. It is not nearly night yet. Theclouds make it seem later than it really is.'

  Heavy drops of rain, followed immediately by a forked flash of lightningand sharp rattling thunder compelled her, willingly or no, to accepthis invitation. She ascended the steps, stood beside him just within theporch, and for the first time obtained a series of short views of hisperson, as they waited there in silence.

  He was an extremely handsome man, well-formed, and well-dressed, of anage which seemed to be two or three years less than thirty. Themost striking point in his appearance was the wonderful, almostpreternatural, clearness of his complexion. There was not a blemish orspeck of any kind to mar the smoothness of its surface or the beauty ofits hue. Next, his forehead was square and broad, his brows straightand firm, his eyes penetrating and clear. By collecting the round ofexpressions they gave forth, a person who theorized on such matterswould have imbibed the notion that their owner was of a nature to kickagainst the pricks; the last man in the world to put up with a positionbecause it seemed to be his destiny to do so; one who took upon himselfto resist fate with the vindictive determination of a Theomachist.Eyes and forehead both would have expressed keenness of intellect tooseverely to be pleasing, had their force not been counteracted by thelines and tone of the lips. These were full and luscious to a surprisingdegree, possessing a woman-like softness of curve, and a ruby rednessso intense, as to testify strongly to much susceptibility of heart wherefeminine beauty was concerned--a susceptibility that might requireall the ballast of brain with which he had previously been credited toconfine within reasonable channels.

  His manner was rather elegant than good: his speech well-finished andunconstrained.

  The pause in their discourse, which had been caused by the peal ofthunder was unbroken by either for a minute or two, during whichthe ears of both seemed to be absently following the low roar of thewaterfall as it became gradually rivalled by the increasing rush of rainupon the trees and herbage of the grove. After her short looks at him,Cytherea had turned her head towards the avenue for a while, and now,glancing back again for an instant, she discovered that his eyes wereengaged in a steady, though delicate, regard of her face and form.

  At this moment, by reason of the narrowness of the porch, their dressestouched, and remained in contact.

  His clothes are something exterior to every man; but to a womanher dress is part of her body. Its motions are all present to herintelligence if not to her eyes; no man knows how his coat-tails swing.By the slightest hyperbole it may be said that her dress has sensation.Crease but the very Ultima Thule of fringe or flounce, and it hurts heras much as pinching her. Delicate antennae, or feelers, bristle on everyoutlying frill. Go to the uppermost: she is there; tread on the lowest:the fair creature is there almost before you.

  Thus the touc
h of clothes, which was nothing to Manston, sent a thrillthrough Cytherea, seeing, moreover, that he was of the nature of amysterious stranger. She looked out again at the storm, but still felthim. At last to escape the sensation she moved away, though by so doingit was necessary to advance a little into the rain.

  'Look, the rain is coming into the porch upon you,' he said. 'Stepinside the door.'

  Cytherea hesitated.

  'Perfectly safe, I assure you,' he added, laughing, and holding the dooropen. 'You shall see what a state of disorganization I am in--boxes onboxes, furniture, straw, crockery, in every form of transposition. Anold woman is in the back quarters somewhere, beginning to put things torights.... You know the inside of the house, I dare say?'

  'I have never been in.'

  'O well, come along. Here, you see, they have made a door through, here,they have put a partition dividing the old hall into two, one part isnow my parlour; there they have put a plaster ceiling, hiding the oldchestnut-carved roof because it was too high and would have been chillyfor me; you see, being the original hall, it was open right up to thetop, and here the lord of the manor and his retainers used to meet andbe merry by the light from the monstrous fire which shone out fromthat monstrous fire-place, now narrowed to a mere nothing for my grate,though you can see the old outline still. I almost wish I could have hadit in its original state.'

  'With more romance and less comfort.'

  'Yes, exactly. Well, perhaps the wish is not deep-seated. You will seehow the things are tumbled in anyhow, packing-cases and all. The onlypiece of ornamental furniture yet unpacked is this one.'

  'An organ?'

  'Yes, an organ. I made it myself, except the pipes. I opened the casethis afternoon to commence soothing myself at once. It is not a verylarge one, but quite big enough for a private house. You play, I daresay?'

  'The piano. I am not at all used to an organ.'

  'You would soon acquire the touch for an organ, though it would spoilyour touch for the piano. Not that that matters a great deal. A pianoisn't much as an instrument.'

  'It is the fashion to say so now. I think it is quite good enough.'

  'That isn't altogether a right sentiment about things being goodenough.'

  'No--no. What I mean is, that the men who despise pianos do it as a rulefrom their teeth, merely for fashion's sake, because cleverer men havesaid it before them--not from the experience of their ears.'

  Now Cytherea all at once broke into a blush at the consciousness of agreat snub she had been guilty of in her eagerness to explain herself.He charitably expressed by a look that he did not in the least mind herblunder, if it were one; and this attitude forced him into a position ofmental superiority which vexed her.

  'I play for my private amusement only,' he said. 'I have never learnedscientifically. All I know is what I taught myself.'

  The thunder, lightning, and rain had now increased to a terrificforce. The clouds, from which darts, forks, zigzags, and balls of firecontinually sprang, did not appear to be more than a hundred yards abovetheir heads, and every now and then a flash and a peal made gaps in thesteward's descriptions. He went towards the organ, in the midst of avolley which seemed to shake the aged house from foundations to chimney.

  'You are not going to play now, are you?' said Cytherea uneasily.

  'O yes. Why not now?' he said. 'You can't go home, and therefore we mayas well be amused, if you don't mind sitting on this box. The few chairsI have unpacked are in the other room.'

  Without waiting to see whether she sat down or not, he turned to theorgan and began extemporizing a harmony which meandered through everyvariety of expression of which the instrument was capable. Presently heceased and began searching for some music-book.

  'What a splendid flash!' he said, as the lightning again shone inthrough the mullioned window, which, of a proportion to suit the wholeextent of the original hall, was much too large for the present room.The thunder pealed again. Cytherea, in spite of herself, was frightened,not only at the weather, but at the general unearthly weirdness whichseemed to surround her there.

  'I wish I--the lightning wasn't so bright. Do you think it will lastlong?' she said timidly.

  'It can't last much longer,' he murmured, without turning, runninghis fingers again over the keys. 'But this is nothing,' he continued,suddenly stopping and regarding her. 'It seems brighter because ofthe deep shadow under those trees yonder. Don't mind it; now look atme--look in my face--now.'

  He had faced the window, looking fixedly at the sky with his dark strongeyes. She seemed compelled to do as she was bidden, and looked in thetoo-delicately beautiful face.

  The flash came; but he did not turn or blink, keeping his eyes fixed asfirmly as before. 'There,' he said, turning to her, 'that's the way tolook at lightning.'

  'O, it might have blinded you!' she exclaimed.

  'Nonsense--not lightning of this sort--I shouldn't have stared at itif there had been danger. It is only sheet-lightning now. Now, will youhave another piece? Something from an oratorio this time?'

  'No, thank you--I don't want to hear it whilst it thunders so.' But hehad begun without heeding her answer, and she stood motionless again,marvelling at the wonderful indifference to all external circumstancewhich was now evinced by his complete absorption in the music beforehim.

  'Why do you play such saddening chords?' she said, when he next paused.

  'H'm--because I like them, I suppose,' said he lightly. 'Don't you likesad impressions sometimes?'

  'Yes, sometimes, perhaps.'

  'When you are full of trouble.'

  'Yes.'

  'Well, why shouldn't I when I am full of trouble?'

  'Are you troubled?'

  'I am troubled.' He said this thoughtfully and abruptly--so abruptlythat she did not push the dialogue further.

  He now played more powerfully. Cytherea had never heard music in thecompleteness of full orchestral power, and the tones of the organ, whichreverberated with considerable effect in the comparatively small spaceof the room, heightened by the elemental strife of light and soundoutside, moved her to a degree out of proportion to the actual powerof the mere notes, practised as was the hand that produced them.The varying strains--now loud, now soft; simple, complicated, weird,touching, grand, boisterous, subdued; each phase distinct, yetmodulating into the next with a graceful and easy flow--shook and benther to themselves, as a gushing brook shakes and bends a shadow castacross its surface. The power of the music did not show itself so muchby attracting her attention to the subject of the piece, as by takingup and developing as its libretto the poem of her own life and soul,shifting her deeds and intentions from the hands of her judgment andholding them in its own.

  She was swayed into emotional opinions concerning the strange man beforeher; new impulses of thought came with new harmonies, and entered intoher with a gnawing thrill. A dreadful flash of lightning then, and thethunder close upon it. She found herself involuntarily shrinking upbeside him, and looking with parted lips at his face.

  He turned his eyes and saw her emotion, which greatly increased theideal element in her expressive face. She was in the state in whichwoman's instinct to conceal has lost its power over her impulse to tell;and he saw it. Bending his handsome face over her till his lips almosttouched her ear, he murmured, without breaking the harmonies--

  'Do you very much like this piece?'

  'Very much indeed,' she said.

  'I could see you were affected by it. I will copy it for you.'

  'Thank you much.'

  'I will bring it to the House to you to-morrow. Who shall I ask for?'

  'O, not for me. Don't bring it,' she said hastily. 'I shouldn't like youto.'

  'Let me see--to-morrow evening at seven or a few minutes past I shall bepassing the waterfall on my way home. I could conveniently give it youthere, and I should like you to have it.'

  He modulated into the Pastoral Symphony, still looking in her eyes.

  'Very well,' she said, to get
rid of the look.

  The storm had by this time considerably decreased in violence, and inseven or ten minutes the sky partially cleared, the clouds around thewestern horizon becoming lighted up with the rays of the sinking sun.

  Cytherea drew a long breath of relief, and prepared to go away. She wasfull of a distressing sense that her detention in the old manor-house,and the acquaintanceship it had set on foot, was not a thing she wished.It was such a foolish thing to have been excited and dragged intofrankness by the wiles of a stranger.

  'Allow me to come with you,' he said, accompanying her to the door, andagain showing by his behaviour how much he was impressed with her. Hisinfluence over her had vanished with the musical chords, and she turnedher back upon him. 'May I come?' he repeated.

  'No, no. The distance is not a quarter of a mile--it is really notnecessary, thank you,' she said quietly. And wishing him good-evening,without meeting his eyes, she went down the steps, leaving him standingat the door.

  'O, how is it that man has so fascinated me?' was all she could think.Her own self, as she had sat spell-bound before him, was all she couldsee. Her gait was constrained, from the knowledge that his eyes wereupon her until she had passed the hollow by the waterfall, and byascending the rise had become hidden from his view by the boughs of theoverhanging trees.

  5. SIX TO SEVEN P.M.

  The wet shining road threw the western glare into her eyes with aninvidious lustre which rendered the restlessness of her mood morewearying. Her thoughts flew from idea to idea without asking for theslightest link of connection between one and another. One moment shewas full of the wild music and stirring scene with Manston---the next,Edward's image rose before her like a shadowy ghost. Then Manston'sblack eyes seemed piercing her again, and the reckless voluptuous mouthappeared bending to the curves of his special words. What could be thosetroubles to which he had alluded? Perhaps Miss Aldclyffe was at thebottom of them. Sad at heart she paced on: her life was bewildering her.

  On coming into Miss Aldclyffe's presence Cytherea told her of theincident, not without a fear that she would burst into one of herungovernable fits of temper at learning Cytherea's slight departurefrom the programme. But, strangely to Cytherea, Miss Aldclyffe lookeddelighted. The usual cross-examination followed.

  'And so you were with him all that time?' said the lady, with assumedseverity.

  'Yes, I was.'

  'I did not tell you to call at the Old House twice.'

  'I didn't call, as I have said. He made me come into the porch.'

  'What remarks did he make, do you say?'

  'That the lightning was not so bad as I thought.'

  'A very important remark, that. Did he--' she turned her glance fullupon the girl, and eyeing her searchingly, said--

  'Did he say anything about _me_?'

  'Nothing,' said Cytherea, returning her gaze calmly, 'except that I wasto give you the subscription.'

  'You are quite sure?'

  'Quite.'

  'I believe you. Did he say anything striking or strange about himself?'

  'Only one thing--that he was troubled,'

  'Troubled!'

  After saying the word, Miss Aldclyffe relapsed into silence. Suchbehaviour as this had ended, on most previous occasions, by her makinga confession, and Cytherea expected one now. But for once she wasmistaken, nothing more was said.

  When she had returned to her room she sat down and penned a farewellletter to Edward Springrove, as little able as any other excitableand brimming young woman of nineteen to feel that the wisest and onlydignified course at that juncture was to do nothing at all. She toldhim that, to her painful surprise, she had learnt that his engagementto another woman was a matter of notoriety. She insisted that all honourbade him marry his early love--a woman far better than her unworthyself, who only deserved to be forgotten, and begged him to rememberthat he was not to see her face again. She upbraided him for levityand cruelty in meeting her so frequently at Budmouth, and above allin stealing the kiss from her lips on the last evening of the waterexcursions. 'I never, never can forget it!' she said, and then felt asensation of having done her duty, ostensibly persuading herself thather reproaches and commands were of such a force that no man to whomthey were uttered could ever approach her more.

  Yet it was all unconsciously said in words which betrayed a lingeringtenderness of love at every unguarded turn. Like Beatrice accusingDante from the chariot, try as she might to play the superior beingwho contemned such mere eye-sensuousness, she betrayed at every pointa pretty woman's jealousy of a rival, and covertly gave her old loverhints for excusing himself at each fresh indictment.

  This done, Cytherea, still in a practical mood, upbraided herself withweakness in allowing a stranger like Mr. Manston to influence her as hehad done that evening. What right on earth had he to suggest so suddenlythat she might meet him at the waterfall to receive his music? She wouldhave given much to be able to annihilate the ascendency he had obtainedover her during that extraordinary interval of melodious sound. Notbeing able to endure the notion of his living a minute longer in thebelief he was then holding, she took her pen and wrote to him also:--

  'KNAPWATER HOUSE September 20th.

  'I find I cannot meet you at seven o'clock by the waterfall as I promised. The emotion I felt made me forgetful of realities.

  'C. GRAYE.'

  A great statesman thinks several times, and acts; a young lady acts,and thinks several times. When, a few minutes later, she saw the postmancarry off the bag containing one of the letters, and a messenger withthe other, she, for the first time, asked herself the question whethershe had acted very wisely in writing to either of the two men who had soinfluenced her.