1. from the Twenty-second to the Twenty-seventh of July
But things are not what they seem. A responsive love for Edward Springrove had made its appearance in Cytherea’s bosom1 with all the fascinating attributes of a first experience, not succeeding to or displacing other emotions, as in older hearts, but taking up entirely2 new ground; as when gazing just after sunset at the pale blue sky we see a star come into existence where nothing was before.
His parting words, ‘Don’t forget me,’ she repeated to herself a hundred times, and though she thought their import was probably commonplace, she could not help toying with them,—looking at them from all points, and investing them with meanings of love and faithfulness,—ostensibly entertaining such meanings only as fables3 wherewith to pass the time, yet in her heart admitting, for detached instants, a possibility of their deeper truth. And thus, for hours after he had left her, her reason flirted4 with her fancy as a kitten will sport with a dove, pleasantly and smoothly5 through easy attitudes, but disclosing its cruel and 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 circumstance which, slight in itself, took up a relevant and important position between the past and the future of the persons herein concerned.
At breakfast time, just as Cytherea had again seen the postman pass without bringing her an answer to the advertisement, as she had fully6 expected 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 lameness7 owing to?’
‘I don’t know—nothing. It has quite gone off now... Cytherea, I hope you 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’t it? And when I reached the station and learnt that I could not get on by train my foot seemed better. I started off to walk home, and went about five miles along a path beside the railway. It then struck me that I might not be fit for anything today if I walked and aggravated8 the bothering foot, so I looked for a place to sleep at. There was no available village or inn, and I eventually got the keeper of a gate-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 narrow quarters. Those gate-houses are such small places, and the man had only his own bed to offer me. Ah, by-the-bye, Cythie, I have such an extraordinary 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 be fastidious, and as he had a hearty9 manner, though a very queer one, I agreed to accept it, and he made a rough pallet for himself on the floor close beside me. Well, I could not sleep for my life, and I wished I had not stayed there, though I was so tired. For one thing, there were the luggage trains rattling10 by at my elbow the early part of the night. But worse than this, he talked continually in his sleep, and occasionally struck out with his limbs at something or another, knocking against the post of the bedstead and making it tremble. My condition was altogether so unsatisfactory that at last I awoke him, and asked him what he had been dreaming about for the previous hour, for I could get no sleep at all. He begged my pardon for disturbing me, but a name I had casually11 let fall that evening had led him to think of another stranger he had once had visit him, who had also accidentally mentioned the same name, and some very strange incidents connected with that meeting. The affair had occurred years and years ago; but what I had said had made him think and dream about it as if it were but yesterday. What was the word? I said. “Cytherea,” he said. What was the story? I asked then. He then told me that when he was a young man in London he borrowed a few pounds to 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 of Parliament were on fire.
‘Not a soul remained in his parlour besides himself, and he began picking up the pipes and glasses his customers had hastily relinquished12. At length a young lady about seventeen or eighteen came in. She asked if 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 small inner room. There was a glass-pane in the partition dividing this room from the bar to enable the landlord to see if his visitors, who sat there, wanted anything. A curious awkwardness and melancholy13 about the behaviour of the girl who called, caused my informant to look frequently at her through the partition. She seemed weary of her life, and sat with her face buried in her hands, evidently quite out of her element in such a house. Then a woman much older came in and greeted Miss Taylor by name. 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 the floor in a swoon, apparently14 overcome by the news. The landlord ran in and lifted her up. Well, do what they would they could not for a long time bring her back to consciousness, and began to be much alarmed. “Who is she?” the innkeeper said to the other woman. “I know her,” the other said, with deep meaning in her tone. The elderly and young woman seemed allied15, and yet strangers.
‘She now showed signs of life, and it struck him (he was plainly of an inquisitive16 turn), that in her half-bewildered state he might get some information from her. He stooped over her, put his mouth to her ear, and said sharply, “What’s your name?” “To catch a woman napping is difficult, even when she’s half dead; but I did it,” says the gatekeeper. 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 be equally with Jane a name she had invented for the occasion, that they might not trace her; but I think it was truth unconsciously uttered, for she added directly afterwards: “O, what have I said!” and was quite overcome again—this time with fright. Her vexation that the woman now doubted the genuineness of her other name was very much greater than that the innkeeper did, and it is evident that to blind the woman was her main object. He also learnt from words the elderly woman casually dropped, that meetings of the same kind had been held before, and that the falseness of the soi-disant Miss Jane Taylor’s name had never been suspected by this dependent or confederate till then.
‘She recovered, rested there for an hour, and first sending off her companion peremptorily18 (which was another odd thing), she left the house, offering the landlord all the money she had to say nothing about the circumstance. He has never seen her since, according to his own account. I said to him again and again, “Did you find any more particulars afterwards?” “Not a syllable,” he said. O, he should never hear any more of that! too many years had passed since it happened. “At any rate, you found out her surname?” I said. “Well, well, that’s my secret,” he went on. “Perhaps I should never have been in this part of the 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 off as a bribe19 to silence; but I can’t say. “Ah, yes!” he said, with a long breath. “I have never heard that name mentioned since that time till to-night, and then there instantly rose to my eyes the vision of that young lady lying in a fainting fit.” He then stopped talking and fell asleep. Telling the story must have relieved him as it did the Ancient Mariner20, for he did not move a muscle or make another sound for the remainder 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 uncommon21 name?’ continued Owen. ‘The man was evidently truthful22, for there was not motive23 sufficient for his invention of such a tale, and he could not have done it either.’
Cytherea looked long at her brother. ‘Don’t you recognize anything else in connection with the story?’ she said.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Do you remember what poor papa once let drop—that Cytherea was the name of his first sweetheart in Bloomsbury, who so mysteriously renounced24 him? A sort of intuition tells me that this was the same woman.’
‘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 found one in an old school history.
‘The Houses of Parliament were burnt down in the evening of the sixteenth 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 absorbing interest this story would have had for him,’ said Cytherea by-and-by. ‘And how strangely knowledge comes to us. We might have searched for a clue to her secret half the world over, and never found one. If we had really had any motive for trying to discover more of the sad history than papa told us, we should have gone to Bloomsbury; but not caring to do so, we go two hundred miles in the opposite direction, and there find 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 (if she is the same woman) is a mere26 coincidence after all—a family story to tell our friends if we ever have any. But we shall never know any more of the episode now—trust our fates for that.’
Cytherea sat silently thinking.
‘There was no answer this morning to your advertisement, Cytherea?’ he continued.
‘None.’
‘I could see that by your looks when I came in.’
‘Fancy not getting a single one,’ she said sadly. ‘Surely there must be people somewhere who want governesses?’
‘Yes; but those who want them, and can afford to have them, get them mostly by friends’ recommendations; whilst those who want them, and can’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 trouble your mind so; you think about it all day. I can keep you, Cythie, in a plain way of living. Twenty-five shillings a week do not amount to much truly; but then many mechanics have no more, and we live quite as sparingly as journeymen mechanics... It is a meagre narrow life we are drifting into,’ he added gloomily, ‘but it is a degree more tolerable than the worrying sensation of all the world being ashamed of you, which we 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 in dropping out of the world.’ The sneering27 tones of the remark were almost too laboured to be real. ‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘something better for me is sure to turn up soon. I wish my engagement here was a permanent one instead of for only two months. It may, certainly, be for a longer time, 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 of October—the time Mr. Gradfield mentioned—what should we do if I were dependent on you only throughout the winter?’
They pondered on numerous schemes by which a young lady might be supposed to earn a decent livelihood—more or less convenient and feasible in imagination, but relinquished them all until advertising28 had been once more tried, this time taking lower ground. Cytherea was vexed29 at her temerity30 in having represented to the world that so inexperienced a being as herself was a qualified31 governess; and had a fancy that this presumption32 of hers might be one reason why no ladies applied33. The new and 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 down the Parade for a while. Soon they met Springrove, said a few words to him, and passed on. Owen noticed that his sister’s face had become crimson34. Rather oddly they met Springrove again in a few minutes. This time the three walked a little way together, Edward ostensibly talking to Owen, though with a single thought to the reception of his words by the maiden35 at the farther side, upon whom his gaze was mostly resting, and who was attentively36 listening—looking fixedly37 upon the pavement the while. It has been said that men love with their eyes; women with their ears.
As Owen and himself were little more than acquaintances as yet, and as Springrove was wanting in the assurance of many men of his age, it now became necessary to wish his friends good-evening, or to find a reason for continuing near Cytherea by saying some nice new thing. He thought of a new thing; he proposed a pull across the bay. This was assented39 to. They went to the pier40; stepped into one of the gaily41 painted boats moored42 alongside and sheered off. Cytherea sat in the stern steering44.
They rowed that evening; the next came, and with it the necessity of rowing again. Then the next, and the next, Cytherea always sitting in the stern with the tiller ropes in her hand. The curves of her figure welded with those of the fragile boat in perfect continuation, as she girlishly yielded herself to its heaving and sinking, seeming to form with it an organic whole.
Then Owen was inclined to test his skill in paddling a canoe. Edward did 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; but not considering himself sufficiently45 accomplished46 to do finished rowing before a parade full of promenaders when there was a little swell47 on, and with the rudder unshipped in addition, he begged that Cytherea might come with him and steer43 as before. She stepped in, and they floated along in the wake of her brother. Thus passed the fifth evening on the water.
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 management at Gradfield’s, and the last evening before his return from Budmouth to his father’s house, previous to his departure for London.
Graye had been requested by the architect to survey a plot of land nearly twenty miles off, which, with the journey to and fro, would occupy him the whole day, and prevent his returning till late in the evening. Cytherea made a companion of her landlady48 to the extent of sharing meals and sitting with her during the morning of her brother’s absence. Mid-day found her restless and miserable49 under this arrangement. All the afternoon she sat alone, looking out of the window for she scarcely knew whom, and hoping she scarcely knew what. Half-past five o’clock came—the end of Springrove’s official day. Two minutes later Springrove walked by.
She endured her solitude50 for another half-hour, and then could endure no longer. She had hoped—while affecting to fear—that Edward would have found some reason or other for calling, but it seemed that he had not. Hastily dressing51 herself she went out, when the farce52 of an accidental meeting was repeated. Edward came upon her in the street at the first turning, and, like the Great Duke Ferdinand in ‘The Statue and the Bust’—
‘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 impulsively53.
How blissful it all is at first. Perhaps, indeed, the only bliss54 in the course of love which can truly be called Eden-like is that which prevails immediately after doubt has ended and before reflection has set in-at the dawn of the emotion, when it is not recognized by name, and before the consideration of what this love is, has given birth to the consideration of what difficulties it tends to create; when on the man’s part, the mistress appears to the mind’s eye in picturesque55, hazy56, and fresh morning lights, and soft morning shadows; when, as yet, she is known only as the wearer of one dress, which shares her own personality; as the stander in one special position, the giver of one bright particular glance, and the speaker of one tender sentence; when, on her part, she is timidly careful over what she says and does, lest she should be misconstrued or under-rated to the breadth of a shadow of a hair.
‘Shall we have a boat?’ he said again, more softly, seeing that to his first question she had not answered, but looked uncertainly at the ground, then almost, but not quite, in his face, blushed a series of minute blushes, left off in the midst of them, and showed the usual signs of perplexity in a matter of the emotions.
Owen had always been with her before, but there was now a force of habit in the proceeding57, and with Arcadian innocence58 she assumed that a row on the water was, under any circumstances, a natural thing. Without another word being spoken on either side, they went down the steps. He carefully handed her in, took his seat, slid noiselessly off the sand, and away from the shore.
They thus sat facing each other in the graceful60 yellow cockle-shell, and his eyes frequently found a resting-place in the depths of hers. The boat was so small that at each return of the sculls, when his hands came forward to begin the pull, they approached so near to her that her vivid imagination began to thrill her with a fancy that he was going to clasp his arms round her. The sensation grew so strong that she could not run the risk of again meeting his eyes at those critical moments, and turned aside to inspect the distant horizon; then she grew weary of looking sideways, and was driven to return to her natural position again. At this instant he again leant forward to begin, and met her glance by an ardent61 fixed38 gaze. An involuntary impulse of girlish embarrassment62 caused her to give a vehement63 pull at the tiller-rope, which brought the boat’s head round till they stood directly for shore.
His eyes, which had dwelt upon her form during the whole time of her look askance, now left her; he perceived the direction in which they were going.
‘Why, you have completely turned the boat, Miss Graye?’ he said, looking over his shoulder. ‘Look at our track on the water—a great semicircle, preceded by a series of zigzags64 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 of vexation 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 to return?’
‘Yes, if you please.’
‘Of course, then, I will at once.’
‘I fear what the people will think of us—going in such absurd directions, and all through my wretched steering.’
‘Never mind what the people think.’ A pause. ‘You surely are not so weak as 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 him to her; but never mind. For almost the first time in her life she felt the charming sensation, although on such an insignificant65 subject, of being compelled into an opinion by a man she loved. Owen, though less yielding physically66, and more practical, would not have had the intellectual independence to answer a woman thus. She replied quietly and honestly—as honestly as when she had stated the contrary fact a minute earlier—
‘I don’t mind.’
‘I’ll unship the tiller that you may have nothing to do going back but to hold your parasol,’ he continued, and arose to perform the operation, necessarily leaning closely against her, to guard against the risk of capsizing the boat as he reached his hands astern. His warm breath touched and crept round her face like a caress67; but he was apparently only concerned with his task. She looked guilty of something when he seated himself. He read in her face what that something was—she had experienced a pleasure from his touch. But he flung a practical glance over his shoulder, seized the oars68, and they sped in a straight line towards the shore.
Cytherea saw that he noted69 in her face what had passed in her heart, and that noting it, he continued as decided70 as before. She was inwardly distressed71. She had not meant him to translate her words about returning home so literally72 at the first; she had not intended him to learn her secret; but more than all she was not able to endure the perception of his learning it and continuing unmoved.
There was nothing but misery73 to come now. They would step ashore74; he would say good-night, go to London tomorrow, and the miserable She would lose him for ever. She did not quite suppose what was the fact, that a parallel thought was simultaneously75 passing through his mind.
They were now within ten yards, now within five; he was only now waiting for a ‘smooth’ to bring the boat in. Sweet, sweet Love must not be slain76 thus, was the fair maid’s reasoning. She was equal to the occasion—ladies are—and delivered the god—
‘Do you want very much to land, Mr. Springrove?’ she said, letting her young violet eyes pine at him a very, very little.
‘I? Not at all,’ said he, looking an astonishment77 at her inquiry78 which a slight twinkle of his eye half belied79. ‘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 you don’t mind? I’ll try to steer better than before if it makes it easier for you. I’ll try very hard.’
It was the turn of his face to tell a tale now. He looked, ‘We understand each other—ah, we do, darling!’ turned the boat, and pulled back into the Bay once more.
‘Now steer wherever you will,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘Never mind the directness of the course—wherever you will.’
‘Shall it be Creston Shore?’ she said, pointing to a stretch of beach northward81 from Budmouth Esplanade.
‘Creston Shore certainly,’ he responded, grasping the sculls. She took the strings82 daintily, and they wound away to the left.
For a long time nothing was audible in the boat but the regular dip of the oars, and their movement in the rowlocks. Springrove at length spoke59.
‘I must go away tomorrow,’ 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 preoccupied83 softness.
‘But I shan’t advance.’
‘Why not? Architecture is a bewitching profession. They say that an architect’s work is another man’s play.’
‘Yes. But worldly advantage from an art doesn’t depend upon mastering it. I used to think it did; but it doesn’t. Those who get rich need have no skill at all as artists.’
‘What need they have?’
‘A certain kind of energy which men with any fondness for art possess very seldom indeed—an earnestness in making acquaintances, and a love for using them. They give their whole attention to the art of dining out, after mastering a few rudimentary facts to serve up in conversation. Now after saying that, do I seem a man likely to make a name?’
‘You seem a man likely to make a mistake.’
‘What’s that?’
‘To give too much room to the latent feeling which is rather common in these days among the unappreciated, that because some remarkably84 successful men are fools, all remarkably unsuccessful men are geniuses.’
‘Pretty subtle for a young lady,’ he said slowly. ‘From that remark I should fancy you had bought experience.’
She passed over the idea. ‘Do try to succeed,’ she said, with wistful thoughtfulness, leaving her eyes on him.
Springrove flushed a little at the earnestness of her words, and mused85. ‘Then, like Cato the Censor86, I shall do what I despise, to be in the fashion,’ he said at last... ‘Well, when I found all this out that I was speaking of, what ever do you think I did? From having already loved verse passionately87, I went on to read it continually; then I went rhyming myself. If anything on earth ruins a man for useful occupation, and for content with reasonable success in a profession or trade, it is the habit of writing verses on emotional subjects, which had much better be left to die from want of nourishment88.’
‘Do you write poems now?’ she said.
‘None. Poetical89 days are getting past with me, according to the usual rule. Writing rhymes is a stage people of my sort pass through, as they pass through the stage of shaving for a beard, or thinking they are ill-used, or saying there’s nothing in the world worth living for.’
‘Then the difference between a common man and a recognized poet is, that one has been deluded90, and cured of his delusion91, and the other continues deluded all his days.’
‘Well, there’s just enough truth in what you say, to make the remark unbearable92. However, it doesn’t matter to me now that I “meditate the thankless Muse” no longer, but....’ He paused, as if endeavouring to think what better thing he did.
Cytherea’s mind ran on to the succeeding lines of the poem, and their startling harmony with the present situation suggested the fancy that he was ‘sporting’ with her, and brought an awkward contemplativeness to her face.
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 made arrangements for leaving,’ he resumed.
Such levity93, superimposed on the notion of ‘sport’, was intolerable to Cytherea; for a woman seems never to see any but the serious side of her attachment94, though the most devoted95 lover has all the time a vague and dim perception that he is losing his old dignity and frittering away his time.
‘But will you not try again to get on in your profession? Try once more; do try once more,’ she murmured. ‘I am going to try again. I have advertised for something to do.’
‘Of course I will,’ he said, with an eager gesture and smile. ‘But we must remember that the fame of Christopher Wren96 himself depended upon the accident of a fire in Pudding Lane. My successes seem to come very slowly. I often think, that before I am ready to live, it will be time for me to die. However, I am trying—not for fame now, but for an easy life of reasonable comfort.’
It is a melancholy truth for the middle classes, that in proportion as they develop, by the study of poetry and art, their capacity for conjugal97 love of the highest and purest kind, they limit the possibility of their being able to exercise it—the very act putting out of their power the attainment98 of means sufficient for marriage. The man who works up 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 perturbed99. The truly great stand upon no middle ledge25; they are either famous or unknown.’
‘Unknown,’ he said, ‘if their ideas have been allowed to flow with a sympathetic breadth. Famous only if they have been convergent100 and exclusive.’
‘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 the long and the short of the matter is, that men must stick to a thing if they want to succeed in it—not giving way to over-much admiration101 for the flowers they see growing in other people’s borders; which I am afraid has been my case.’ He looked into the far distance and paused.
Adherence102 to a course with persistence103 sufficient to ensure success is possible to widely appreciative104 minds only when there is also found in them a power—commonplace in its nature, but rare in such combination—the power of assuming to conviction that in the outlying paths which appear so much more brilliant than their own, there are bitternesses equally great—unperceived simply on account of their remoteness.
They were opposite Ringsworth Shore. The cliffs here were formed of strata105 completely contrasting with those of the further side of the Bay, whilst in and beneath the water hard boulders106 had taken the place of sand and shingle107, between which, however, the sea glided108 noiselessly, without breaking the crest80 of a single wave, so strikingly calm was the air. The breeze had entirely died away, leaving the water of that rare glassy smoothness which is unmarked even by the small dimples of the least aerial movement. Purples and blues109 of divers110 shades were reflected from 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 pulpy111 creatures reflecting a silvery and spangled radiance upwards112 to their eyes.
At length she looked at him to learn the effect of her words of encouragement. He had let the oars drift alongside, and the boat had come to a standstill. Everything on earth seemed taking a contemplative rest, as if waiting to hear the avowal113 of something from his lips. At that instant he appeared to break a resolution hitherto zealously114 kept. Leaving his seat amidships he came and gently edged himself down beside her upon the narrow seat at the stern.
She breathed more quickly and warmly: he took her right hand in his own right: it was not withdrawn115. He put his left hand behind her neck till it came round upon her left cheek: it was not thrust away. Lightly pressing her, he brought her face and mouth towards his own; when, at this the very brink117, some unaccountable thought or spell within him suddenly made him halt—even now, and as it seemed as much to himself as to her, he timidly whispered ‘May I?’
Her endeavour was to say No, so denuded118 of its flesh and sinews that its nature would hardly be recognized, or in other words a No from so near the affirmative frontier as to be affected119 with the Yes accent. It was thus a whispered No, drawn116 out to nearly a quarter of a minute’s length, the O making itself audible as a sound like the spring coo of a pigeon on unusually friendly terms with its mate. Though conscious of her success in producing the kind of word she had wished to produce, she at the same time trembled in suspense120 as to how it would be taken. But the time available for doubt was so short as to admit of scarcely more than half a pulsation121: pressing closer he kissed her. Then he kissed her again with a longer kiss.
It was the supremely122 happy moment of their experience. The ‘bloom’ and the ‘purple light’ were strong on the lineaments of both. Their hearts could 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 them from the hills, the plains, the distant town, the adjacent shore, the water heaving at their side, the kiss, and the long kiss, were all ‘many a voice of one delight,’ and in unison123 with each other.
But his mind flew back to the same unpleasant thought which had been connected with the resolution he had broken a minute or two earlier. ‘I could be a slave at my profession to win you, Cytherea; I would work at the meanest, honest trade to be near you—much less claim you as mine; I would—anything. But I have not told you all; it is not this; you don’t know what there is yet to tell. Could you forgive as you can love?’ She was alarmed to see that he had become pale with the question.
‘No—do not speak,’ he said. ‘I have kept something from you, which has now 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 now nothing 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 go indoors whilst I meet him at the station, and explain everything.’
Cytherea’s short-lived bliss was dead and gone. O, if she had known of this sequel would she have allowed him to break down the barrier of mere acquaintanceship—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 only reason for keeping silence is that with my present knowledge I may tell an untrue story. It may be that there is nothing to tell. I am to blame for haste in alluding124 to any such thing. Forgive me, sweet—forgive me.’ Her heart was ready to burst, and she could not answer him. He returned to 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 sun had set, and a star or two began to peep out. They drew nearer their destination, Edward as he pulled tracing listlessly with his eyes the red stripes upon her scarf, which grew to appear as black ones in the increasing dusk of evening. She surveyed the long line of lamps on the sea-wall of the town, now looking small and yellow, and seeming to send long tap-roots of fire quivering down deep into the sea. By-and-by they reached the landing-steps. He took her hand as before, and found it as cold as the water about them. It was not relinquished till he reached her door. His assurance had not removed the constraint125 of her manner: he saw that she blamed him mutely and with her eyes, like a captured sparrow. Left alone, he went and seated himself in a chair on the Esplanade.
Neither could she go indoors to her solitary126 room, feeling as she did in such a state of desperate heaviness. When Springrove was out of sight she turned back, and arrived at the corner just in time to see him sit down. Then she glided pensively127 along the pavement behind him, forgetting herself to marble like Melancholy herself as she mused in his neighbourhood unseen. She heard, without heeding128, the notes of pianos and singing voices from the fashionable houses at her back, from the open windows of which the lamp-light streamed to join that of the orange-hued full moon, newly risen over the Bay in front. Then Edward began to pace up and down, and Cytherea, fearing that he would notice her, hastened homeward, flinging him a last look as she passed out of sight. No promise from him to write: no request that she herself would do so—nothing but an indefinite expression of hope in the face of some fear unknown to her. Alas129, alas!
When Owen returned he found she was not in the small sitting-room130, and creeping upstairs into her bedroom with a light, he discovered her there lying asleep upon the coverlet of the bed, still with her hat and jacket on. She had flung herself down on entering, and succumbed131 to the unwonted oppressiveness that ever attends full-blown love. The wet traces of tears were yet visible upon her long drooping132 lashes133.
‘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, and vented17 an exclamation134 before recovering her judgment135. ‘He’s gone!’ she said.
‘He has told me all,’ said Graye soothingly136. ‘He is going off early tomorrow morning. ’Twas a shame of him to win you away from me, and cruel 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 told you 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 could not convict him. But she would struggle against his fetters137. She tingled138 to the very soles of her feet at the very possibility that he might be deluding139 her.
‘Owen,’ she continued, with dignity, ‘what is he to me? Nothing. I must dismiss such weakness as this—believe me, I will. Something far more pressing must drive it away. I have been looking my position steadily140 in the face, and I must get a living somehow. I mean to advertise once more.’
‘Advertising is no use.’
‘This one will be.’ He looked surprised at the sanguine141 tone of her answer, 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 was her third effort:—
‘LADY’S-MAID. Inexperienced. Age eighteen.—G., 3 Cross Street, Budmouth.’
Owen—Owen the respectable—looked blank astonishment. He repeated in a nameless, 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 two months will close my engagement here.’
‘We can put up with being poor,’ she said, ‘if they only give us work to do.... Yes, we desire as a blessing142 what was given us as a curse, and even that is denied. However, be cheerful, Owen, and never mind!’
In justice to desponding men, it is as well to remember that the brighter endurance of women at these epochs—invaluable, sweet, angelic, as it is—owes more of its origin to a narrower vision that shuts out many of the leaden-eyed despairs in the van, than to a hopefulness intense enough to quell143 them.
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1
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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flirted
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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lameness
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| n. 跛, 瘸, 残废 | |
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aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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moored
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| adj. 系泊的 动词moor的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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43
steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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44
steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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48
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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49
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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50
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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51
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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52
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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53
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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54
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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55
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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56
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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57
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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58
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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59
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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60
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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61
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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62
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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63
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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64
zigzags
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| n.锯齿形的线条、小径等( zigzag的名词复数 )v.弯弯曲曲地走路，曲折地前进( zigzag的第三人称单数 ) | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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67
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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68
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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69
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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72
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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73
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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74
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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75
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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76
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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77
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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78
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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79
belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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80
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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82
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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83
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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84
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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censor
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| n./vt.审查，审查员；删改 | |
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87
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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92
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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wren
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| n.鹪鹩；英国皇家海军女子服务队成员 | |
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conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
convergent
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| adj.会聚的 | |
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101
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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102
adherence
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| n.信奉，依附，坚持，固着 | |
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103
persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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104
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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105
strata
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| n.地层（复数）；社会阶层 | |
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106
boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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107
shingle
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| n.木瓦板；小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌)；v.用木瓦板盖（屋顶）；把（女子头发）剪短 | |
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108
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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109
blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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110
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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111
pulpy
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| 果肉状的，多汁的，柔软的； 烂糊； 稀烂 | |
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112
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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113
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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114
zealously
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| adv.热心地；热情地；积极地；狂热地 | |
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115
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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116
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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117
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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118
denuded
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| adj.[医]变光的，裸露的v.使赤裸( denude的过去式和过去分词 )；剥光覆盖物 | |
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119
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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120
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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121
pulsation
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| n.脉搏，悸动，脉动；搏动性 | |
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122
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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123
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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124
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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125
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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126
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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127
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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128
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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129
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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130
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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131
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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132
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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133
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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134
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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135
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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137
fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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138
tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
deluding
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的现在分词 ) | |
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140
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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141
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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142
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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quell
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| v.压制，平息，减轻 | |
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