As is well known, ideas are so elastic in a human brain, that they have
no constant measure which may be called their actual bulk. Any important
idea may be compressed to a molecule by an unwonted crowding of others;
and any small idea will expand to whatever length and breadth of vacuum
the mind may be able to make over to it. Cytherea’s world was tolerably
vacant at this time, and the young architectural designer’s image became
very pervasive. The next evening this subject was again renewed.
‘His name is Springrove,’ said Owen, in reply to her. ‘He is a thorough
artist, but a man of rather humble origin, it seems, who has made
himself so far. I think he is the son of a farmer, or something of the
kind.’
‘Well, he’s none the worse for that, I suppose.’
‘None the worse. As we come down the hill, we shall be continually
meeting people going up.’ But Owen had felt that Springrove was a little
the worse nevertheless.
‘Of course he’s rather old by this time.’
‘O no. He’s about six-and-twenty--not more.’
‘Ah, I see.... What is he like, Owen?’
‘I can’t exactly tell you his appearance: ‘tis always such a difficult
thing to do.’
‘A man you would describe as short? Most men are those we should
describe as short, I fancy.’
‘I should call him, I think, of the middle height; but as I only see
him sitting in the office, of course I am not certain about his form and
figure.’
‘I wish you were, then.’
‘Perhaps you do. But I am not, you see.’
‘Of course not, you are always so provoking. Owen, I saw a man in the
street to-day whom I fancied was he--and yet, I don’t see how it could
be, either. He had light brown hair, a snub nose, very round face, and
a peculiar habit of reducing his eyes to straight lines when he looked
narrowly at anything.’
‘O no. That was not he, Cytherea.’
‘Not a bit like him in all probability.’
‘Not a bit. He has dark hair--almost a Grecian nose, regular teeth, and
an intellectual face, as nearly as I can recall to mind.’
‘Ah, there now, Owen, you _have_ described him! But I suppose he’s not
generally called pleasing, or--’
‘Handsome?’
‘I scarcely meant that. But since you have said it, is he handsome?’
‘Rather.’
‘His tout ensemble is striking?’
‘Yes--O no, no--I forgot: it is not. He is rather untidy in his
waistcoat, and neck-ties, and hair.’
‘How vexing!... it must be to himself, poor thing.’
‘He’s a thorough bookworm--despises the pap-and-daisy school of
verse--knows Shakespeare to the very dregs of the foot-notes. Indeed,
he’s a poet himself in a small way.’
‘How delicious!’ she said. ‘I have never known a poet.’
‘And you don’t know him,’ said Owen dryly.
She reddened. ‘Of course I don’t. I know that.’
‘Have you received any answer to your advertisement?’ he inquired.
‘Ah--no!’ she said, and the forgotten disappointment which had showed
itself in her face at different times during the day, became visible
again.
Another day passed away. On Thursday, without inquiry, she learnt more
of the head draughtsman. He and Graye had become very friendly, and he
had been tempted to show her brother a copy of some poems of his--some
serious and sad--some humorous--which had appeared in the poets’ corner
of a magazine from time to time. Owen showed them now to Cytherea, who
instantly began to read them carefully and to think them very beautiful.
‘Yes--Springrove’s no fool,’ said Owen sententiously.
‘No fool!--I should think he isn’t, indeed,’ said Cytherea, looking up
from the paper in quite an excitement: ‘to write such verses as these!’
‘What logic are you chopping, Cytherea? Well, I don’t mean on account of
the verses, because I haven’t read them; but for what he said when the
fellows were talking about falling in love.’
‘Which you will tell me?’
‘He says that your true lover breathlessly finds himself engaged to a
sweetheart, like a man who has caught something in the dark. He doesn’t
know whether it is a bat or a bird, and takes it to the light when he is
cool to learn what it is. He looks to see if she is the right age, but
right age or wrong age, he must consider her a prize. Sometime later he
ponders whether she is the right kind of prize for him. Right kind or
wrong kind--he has called her his, and must abide by it. After a time he
asks himself, “Has she the temper, hair, and eyes I meant to have, and
was firmly resolved not to do without?” He finds it is all wrong, and
then comes the tussle--’
‘Do they marry and live happily?’
‘Who? O, the supposed pair. I think he said--well, I really forget what
he said.’
‘That _is_ stupid of you!’ said the young lady with dismay.
‘Yes.’
‘But he’s a satirist--I don’t think I care about him now.’
‘There you are just wrong. He is not. He is, as I believe, an impulsive
fellow who has been made to pay the penalty of his rashness in some love
affair.’
Thus ended the dialogue of Thursday, but Cytherea read the verses again
in private. On Friday her brother remarked that Springrove had informed
him he was going to leave Mr. Gradfield’s in a fortnight to push his
fortunes in London.
An indescribable feeling of sadness shot through Cytherea’s heart.
Why should she be sad at such an announcement as that, she thought,
concerning a man she had never seen, when her spirits were elastic
enough to rebound after hard blows from deep and real troubles as if she
had scarcely known them? Though she could not answer this question, she
knew one thing, she was saddened by Owen’s news.