The house was regularly and substantially built of clean grey freestone
throughout, in that plainer fashion of Greek classicism which prevailed
at the latter end of the last century, when the copyists called
designers had grown weary of fantastic variations in the Roman orders.
The main block approximated to a square on the ground plan, having a
projection in the centre of each side, surmounted by a pediment. From
each angle of the inferior side ran a line of buildings lower than the
rest, turning inwards again at their further end, and forming
within them a spacious open court, within which resounded an echo of
astonishing clearness. These erections were in their turn backed by
ivy-covered ice-houses, laundries, and stables, the whole mass of
subsidiary buildings being half buried beneath close-set shrubs and
trees.
There was opening sufficient through the foliage on the right hand to
enable her on nearer approach to form an idea of the arrangement of the
remoter or lawn front also. The natural features and contour of this
quarter of the site had evidently dictated the position of the
house primarily, and were of the ordinary, and upon the whole, most
satisfactory kind, namely, a broad, graceful slope running from the
terrace beneath the walls to the margin of a placid lake lying below,
upon the surface of which a dozen swans and a green punt floated at
leisure. An irregular wooded island stood in the midst of the lake;
beyond this and the further margin of the water were plantations and
greensward of varied outlines, the trees heightening, by half veiling,
the softness of the exquisite landscape stretching behind.
The glimpses she had obtained of this portion were now checked by the
angle of the building. In a minute or two they reached the side door, at
which Cytherea alighted. She was welcomed by an elderly woman of lengthy
smiles and general pleasantness, who announced herself to be Mrs.
Morris, the housekeeper.
‘Mrs. Graye, I believe?’ she said.
‘I am not--O yes, yes, we are all mistresses,’ said Cytherea, smiling,
but forcedly. The title accorded her seemed disagreeably like the first
slight scar of a brand, and she thought of Owen’s prophecy.
Mrs. Morris led her into a comfortable parlour called The Room. Here
tea was made ready, and Cytherea sat down, looking, whenever occasion
allowed, at Mrs. Morris with great interest and curiosity, to discover,
if possible, something in her which should give a clue to the secret
of her knowledge of herself, and the recommendation based upon it.
But nothing was to be learnt, at any rate just then. Mrs. Morris was
perpetually getting up, feeling in her pockets, going to cupboards,
leaving the room two or three minutes, and trotting back again.
‘You’ll excuse me, Mrs. Graye,’ she said, ‘but ‘tis the old gentleman’s
birthday, and they always have a lot of people to dinner on that
day, though he’s getting up in years now. However, none of them are
sleepers--she generally keeps the house pretty clear of lodgers (being a
lady with no intimate friends, though many acquaintances), which, though
it gives us less to do, makes it all the duller for the younger maids in
the house.’ Mrs. Morris then proceeded to give in fragmentary speeches
an outline of the constitution and government of the estate.
‘Now, are you sure you have quite done tea? Not a bit or drop more? Why,
you’ve eaten nothing, I’m sure.... Well, now, it is rather inconvenient
that the other maid is not here to show you the ways of the house a
little, but she left last Saturday, and Miss Aldclyffe has been making
shift with poor old clumsy me for a maid all yesterday and this morning.
She is not come in yet. I expect she will ask for you, Mrs. Graye, the
first thing.... I was going to say that if you have really done tea,
I will take you upstairs, and show you through the wardrobes--Miss
Aldclyffe’s things are not laid out for to-night yet.’
She preceded Cytherea upstairs, pointed out her own room, and then took
her into Miss Aldclyffe’s dressing-room, on the first-floor; where,
after explaining the whereabouts of various articles of apparel, the
housekeeper left her, telling her that she had an hour yet upon her
hands before dressing-time. Cytherea laid out upon the bed in the next
room all that she had been told would be required that evening, and then
went again to the little room which had been appropriated to herself.
Here she sat down by the open window, leant out upon the sill like
another Blessed Damozel, and listlessly looked down upon the brilliant
pattern of colours formed by the flower-beds on the lawn--now richly
crowded with late summer blossom. But the vivacity of spirit which had
hitherto enlivened her, was fast ebbing under the pressure of prosaic
realities, and the warm scarlet of the geraniums, glowing most
conspicuously, and mingling with the vivid cold red and green of the
verbenas, the rich depth of the dahlia, and the ripe mellowness of the
calceolaria, backed by the pale hue of a flock of meek sheep feeding in
the open park, close to the other side of the fence, were, to a great
extent, lost upon her eyes. She was thinking that nothing seemed worth
while; that it was possible she might die in a workhouse; and what did
it matter? The petty, vulgar details of servitude that she had just
passed through, her dependence upon the whims of a strange woman, the
necessity of quenching all individuality of character in herself, and
relinquishing her own peculiar tastes to help on the wheel of this alien
establishment, made her sick and sad, and she almost longed to pursue
some free, out-of-doors employment, sleep under trees or a hut, and know
no enemy but winter and cold weather, like shepherds and cowkeepers, and
birds and animals--ay, like the sheep she saw there under her window.
She looked sympathizingly at them for several minutes, imagining their
enjoyment of the rich grass.
‘Yes--like those sheep,’ she said aloud; and her face reddened with
surprise at a discovery she made that very instant.
The flock consisted of some ninety or a hundred young stock ewes: the
surface of their fleece was as rounded and even as a cushion, and white
as milk. Now she had just observed that on the left buttock of every one
of them were marked in distinct red letters the initials ‘E. S.’
‘E. S.’ could bring to Cytherea’s mind only one thought; but that
immediately and for ever--the name of her lover, Edward Springrove.
‘O, if it should be--!’ She interrupted her words by a resolve. Miss
Aldclyffe’s carriage at the same moment made its appearance in the
drive; but Miss Aldclyffe was not her object now. It was to ascertain to
whom the sheep belonged, and to set her surmise at rest one way or the
other. She flew downstairs to Mrs. Morris.
‘Whose sheep are those in the park, Mrs. Morris?’
‘Farmer Springrove’s.’
‘What Farmer Springrove is that?’ she said quickly.
‘Why, surely you know? Your friend, Farmer Springrove, the cider-maker,
and who keeps the Three Tranters Inn; who recommended you to me when he
came in to see me the other day?’
Cytherea’s mother-wit suddenly warned her in the midst of her excitement
that it was necessary not to betray the secret of her love. ‘O yes,’
she said, ‘of course.’ Her thoughts had run as follows in that short
interval:--
‘Farmer Springrove is Edward’s father, and his name is Edward too.
‘Edward knew I was going to advertise for a situation of some kind.
‘He watched the Times, and saw it, my address being attached.
‘He thought it would be excellent for me to be here that we might meet
whenever he came home.
‘He told his father that I might be recommended as a lady’s-maid; and he
knew my brother and myself.
‘His father told Mrs. Morris; Mrs. Morris told Miss Aldclyffe.’
The whole chain of incidents that drew her there was plain, and there
was no such thing as chance in the matter. It was all Edward’s doing.
The sound of a bell was heard. Cytherea did not heed it, and still
continued in her reverie.
‘That’s Miss Aldclyffe’s bell,’ said Mrs. Morris.
‘I suppose it is,’ said the young woman placidly.
‘Well, it means that you must go up to her,’ the matron continued, in a
tone of surprise.
Cytherea felt a burning heat come over her, mingled with a sudden
irritation at Mrs. Morris’s hint. But the good sense which had
recognized stern necessity prevailed over rebellious independence; the
flush passed, and she said hastily--
‘Yes, yes; of course, I must go to her when she pulls the bell--whether
I want to or no.’
However, in spite of this painful reminder of her new position in life,
Cytherea left the apartment in a mood far different from the gloomy
sadness of ten minutes previous. The place felt like home to her
now; she did not mind the pettiness of her occupation, because Edward
evidently did not mind it; and this was Edward’s own spot. She found
time on her way to Miss Aldclyffe’s dressing-room to hurriedly glide out
by a side door, and look for a moment at the unconscious sheep bearing
the friendly initials. She went up to them to try to touch one of the
flock, and felt vexed that they all stared sceptically at her kind
advances, and then ran pell-mell down the hill. Then, fearing any one
should discover her childish movements, she slipped indoors again,
and ascended the staircase, catching glimpses, as she passed, of
silver-buttoned footmen, who flashed about the passages like lightning.
Miss Aldclyffe’s dressing-room was an apartment which, on a casual
survey, conveyed an impression that it was available for almost any
purpose save the adornment of the feminine person. In its hours of
perfect order nothing pertaining to the toilet was visible; even the
inevitable mirrors with their accessories were arranged in a roomy
recess not noticeable from the door, lighted by a window of its own,
called the dressing-window.
The washing-stand figured as a vast oak chest, carved with grotesque
Renaissance ornament. The dressing table was in appearance something
between a high altar and a cabinet piano, the surface being richly
worked in the same style of semi-classic decoration, but the
extraordinary outline having been arrived at by an ingenious joiner and
decorator from the neighbouring town, after months of painful toil in
cutting and fitting, under Miss Aldclyffe’s immediate eye; the materials
being the remains of two or three old cabinets the lady had found in the
lumber-room. About two-thirds of the floor was carpeted, the remaining
portion being laid with parquetry of light and dark woods.
Miss Aldclyffe was standing at the larger window, away from the
dressing-niche. She bowed, and said pleasantly, ‘I am glad you have
come. We shall get on capitally, I dare say.’
Her bonnet was off. Cytherea did not think her so handsome as on the
earlier day; the queenliness of her beauty was harder and less warm.
But a worse discovery than this was that Miss Aldclyffe, with the usual
obliviousness of rich people to their dependents’ specialities, seemed
to have quite forgotten Cytherea’s inexperience, and mechanically
delivered up her body to her handmaid without a thought of details, and
with a mild yawn.
Everything went well at first. The dress was removed, stockings and
black boots were taken off, and silk stockings and white shoes were
put on. Miss Aldclyffe then retired to bathe her hands and face, and
Cytherea drew breath. If she could get through this first evening, all
would be right. She felt that it was unfortunate that such a crucial
test for her powers as a birthday dinner should have been applied on the
threshold of her arrival; but set to again.
Miss Aldclyffe was now arrayed in a white dressing-gown, and dropped
languidly into an easy-chair, pushed up before the glass. The instincts
of her sex and her own practice told Cytherea the next movement. She let
Miss Aldclyffe’s hair fall about her shoulders, and began to arrange it.
It proved to be all real; a satisfaction.
Miss Aldclyffe was musingly looking on the floor, and the operation went
on for some minutes in silence. At length her thoughts seemed to turn to
the present, and she lifted her eyes to the glass.
‘Why, what on earth are you doing with my head?’ she exclaimed, with
widely opened eyes. At the words she felt the back of Cytherea’s little
hand tremble against her neck.
‘Perhaps you prefer it done the other fashion, madam?’ said the maiden.
‘No, no; that’s the fashion right enough, but you must make more show of
my hair than that, or I shall have to buy some, which God forbid!’
‘It is how I do my own,’ said Cytherea naively, and with a sweetness
of tone that would have pleased the most acrimonious under favourable
circumstances; but tyranny was in the ascendant with Miss Aldclyffe
at this moment, and she was assured of palatable food for her vice by
having felt the trembling of Cytherea’s hand.
‘Yours, indeed! _Your_ hair! Come, go on.’ Considering that Cytherea
possessed at least five times as much of that valuable auxiliary to
woman’s beauty as the lady before her, there was at the same time some
excuse for Miss Aldclyffe’s outburst. She remembered herself, however,
and said more quietly, ‘Now then, Graye--By-the-bye, what do they call
you downstairs?’
‘Mrs. Graye,’ said the handmaid.
‘Then tell them not to do any such absurd thing--not but that it is
quite according to usage; but you are too young yet.’
This dialogue tided Cytherea safely onward through the hairdressing
till the flowers and diamonds were to be placed upon the lady’s brow.
Cytherea began arranging them tastefully, and to the very best of her
judgment.
‘That won’t do,’ said Miss Aldclyffe harshly.
‘Why?’
‘I look too young--an old dressed doll.’
‘Will that, madam?’
‘No, I look a fright--a perfect fright!’
‘This way, perhaps?’
‘Heavens! Don’t worry me so.’ She shut her lips like a trap.
Having once worked herself up to the belief that her head-dress was to
be a failure that evening, no cleverness of Cytherea’s in arranging
it could please her. She continued in a smouldering passion during the
remainder of the performance, keeping her lips firmly closed, and the
muscles of her body rigid. Finally, snatching up her gloves, and taking
her handkerchief and fan in her hand, she silently sailed out of the
room, without betraying the least consciousness of another woman’s
presence behind her.
Cytherea’s fears that at the undressing this suppressed anger would find
a vent, kept her on thorns throughout the evening. She tried to read;
she could not. She tried to sew; she could not. She tried to muse; she
could not do that connectedly. ‘If this is the beginning, what will
the end be!’ she said in a whisper, and felt many misgivings as to the
policy of being overhasty in establishing an independence at the expense
of congruity with a cherished past.