The clock struck twelve. The Aldclyffe state dinner was over. The
company had all gone, and Miss Aldclyffe’s bell rang loudly and
jerkingly.
Cytherea started to her feet at the sound, which broke in upon a fitful
sleep that had overtaken her. She had been sitting drearily in her chair
waiting minute after minute for the signal, her brain in that state
of intentness which takes cognizance of the passage of Time as a real
motion--motion without matter--the instants throbbing past in the
company of a feverish pulse. She hastened to the room, to find the
lady sitting before the dressing shrine, illuminated on both sides, and
looking so queenly in her attitude of absolute repose, that the younger
woman felt the awfullest sense of responsibility at her Vandalism in
having undertaken to demolish so imposing a pile.
The lady’s jewelled ornaments were taken off in silence--some by her own
listless hands, some by Cytherea’s. Then followed the outer stratum of
clothing. The dress being removed, Cytherea took it in her hand and
went with it into the bedroom adjoining, intending to hang it in the
wardrobe. But on second thoughts, in order that she might not keep Miss
Aldclyffe waiting a moment longer than necessary, she flung it down on
the first resting-place that came to hand, which happened to be the
bed, and re-entered the dressing-room with the noiseless footfall of a
kitten. She paused in the middle of the room.
She was unnoticed, and her sudden return had plainly not been expected.
During the short time of Cytherea’s absence, Miss Aldclyffe had pulled
off a kind of chemisette of Brussels net, drawn high above the throat,
which she had worn with her evening dress as a semi-opaque covering to
her shoulders, and in its place had put her night-gown round her.
Her right hand was lifted to her neck, as if engaged in fastening her
night-gown.
But on a second glance Miss Aldclyffe’s proceeding was clearer to
Cytherea. She was not fastening her night-gown; it had been carelessly
thrown round her, and Miss Aldclyffe was really occupied in holding up
to her eyes some small object that she was keenly scrutinizing. And
now on suddenly discovering the presence of Cytherea at the back of the
apartment, instead of naturally continuing or concluding her inspection,
she desisted hurriedly; the tiny snap of a spring was heard, her hand
was removed, and she began adjusting her robes.
Modesty might have directed her hasty action of enwrapping her
shoulders, but it was scarcely likely, considering Miss Aldclyffe’s
temperament, that she had all her life been used to a maid, Cytherea’s
youth, and the elder lady’s marked treatment of her as if she were a
mere child or plaything. The matter was too slight to reason about, and
yet upon the whole it seemed that Miss Aldclyffe must have a practical
reason for concealing her neck.
With a timid sense of being an intruder Cytherea was about to step back
and out of the room; but at the same moment Miss Aldclyffe turned, saw
the impulse, and told her companion to stay, looking into her eyes as if
she had half an intention to explain something. Cytherea felt certain
it was the little mystery of her late movements. The other withdrew her
eyes; Cytherea went to fetch the dressing-gown, and wheeled round
again to bring it up to Miss Aldclyffe, who had now partly removed her
night-dress to put it on the proper way, and still sat with her back
towards Cytherea.
Her neck was again quite open and uncovered, and though hidden from the
direct line of Cytherea’s vision, she saw it reflected in the glass--the
fair white surface, and the inimitable combination of curves between
throat and bosom which artists adore, being brightly lit up by the light
burning on either side.
And the lady’s prior proceedings were now explained in the simplest
manner. In the midst of her breast, like an island in a sea of pearl,
reclined an exquisite little gold locket, embellished with arabesque
work of blue, red, and white enamel. That was undoubtedly what Miss
Aldclyffe had been contemplating; and, moreover, not having been put
off with her other ornaments, it was to be retained during the night--a
slight departure from the custom of ladies which Miss Aldclyffe had at
first not cared to exhibit to her new assistant, though now, on further
thought, she seemed to have become indifferent on the matter.
‘My dressing-gown,’ she said, quietly fastening her night-dress as she
spoke.
Cytherea came forward with it. Miss Aldclyffe did not turn her head, but
looked inquiringly at her maid in the glass.
‘You saw what I wear on my neck, I suppose?’ she said to Cytherea’s
reflected face.
‘Yes, madam, I did,’ said Cytherea to Miss Aldclyffe’s reflected face.
Miss Aldclyffe again looked at Cytherea’s reflection as if she were
on the point of explaining. Again she checked her resolve, and said
lightly--
‘Few of my maids discover that I wear it always. I generally keep it
a secret--not that it matters much. But I was careless with you, and
seemed to want to tell you. You win me to make confidences that....’
She ceased, took Cytherea’s hand in her own, lifted the locket with the
other, touched the spring and disclosed a miniature.
‘It is a handsome face, is it not?’ she whispered mournfully, and even
timidly.
‘It is.’
But the sight had gone through Cytherea like an electric shock, and
there was an instantaneous awakening of perception in her, so thrilling
in its presence as to be well-nigh insupportable. The face in the
miniature was the face of her own father--younger and fresher than she
had ever known him--but her father!
Was this the woman of his wild and unquenchable early love? And was this
the woman who had figured in the gate-man’s story as answering the name
of Cytherea before her judgment was awake? Surely it was. And if so,
here was the tangible outcrop of a romantic and hidden stratum of the
past hitherto seen only in her imagination; but as far as her scope
allowed, clearly defined therein by reason of its strangeness.
Miss Aldclyffe’s eyes and thoughts were so intent upon the miniature
that she had not been conscious of Cytherea’s start of surprise. She
went on speaking in a low and abstracted tone.
‘Yes, I lost him.’ She interrupted her words by a short meditation, and
went on again. ‘I lost him by excess of honesty as regarded my past. But
it was best that it should be so.... I was led to think rather more
than usual of the circumstances to-night because of your name. It is
pronounced the same way, though differently spelt.’
The only means by which Cytherea’s surname could have been spelt to
Miss Aldclyffe must have been by Mrs. Morris or Farmer Springrove. She
fancied Farmer Springrove would have spelt it properly if Edward was his
informant, which made Miss Aldclyffe’s remark obscure.
Women make confidences and then regret them. The impulsive rush of
feeling which had led Miss Aldclyffe to indulge in this revelation,
trifling as it was, died out immediately her words were beyond recall;
and the turmoil, occasioned in her by dwelling upon that chapter of her
life, found vent in another kind of emotion--the result of a trivial
accident.
Cytherea, after letting down Miss Aldclyffe’s hair, adopted some plan
with it to which the lady had not been accustomed. A rapid revulsion
to irritation ensued. The maiden’s mere touch seemed to discharge the
pent-up regret of the lady as if she had been a jar of electricity.
‘How strangely you treat my hair!’ she exclaimed.
A silence.
‘I have told you what I never tell my maids as a rule; of course
_nothing_ that I say in this room is to be mentioned outside it.’ She
spoke crossly no less than emphatically.
‘It shall not be, madam,’ said Cytherea, agitated and vexed that the
woman of her romantic wonderings should be so disagreeable to her.
‘Why on earth did I tell you of my past?’ she went on.
Cytherea made no answer.
The lady’s vexation with herself, and the accident which had led to the
disclosure swelled little by little till it knew no bounds. But what was
done could not be undone, and though Cytherea had shown a most winning
responsiveness, quarrel Miss Aldclyffe must. She recurred to the subject
of Cytherea’s want of expertness, like a bitter reviewer, who finding
the sentiments of a poet unimpeachable, quarrels with his rhymes.
‘Never, never before did I serve myself such a trick as this in engaging
a maid!’ She waited for an expostulation: none came. Miss Aldclyffe
tried again.
‘The idea of my taking a girl without asking her more than three
questions, or having a single reference, all because of her good l--,
the shape of her face and body! It _was_ a fool’s trick. There, I am
served right, quite right--by being deceived in such a way.’
‘I didn’t deceive you,’ said Cytherea. The speech was an unfortunate
one, and was the very ‘fuel to maintain its fires’ that the other’s
petulance desired.
‘You did,’ she said hotly.
‘I told you I couldn’t promise to be acquainted with every detail of
routine just at first.’
‘Will you contradict me in this way! You are telling untruths, I say.’
Cytherea’s lip quivered. ‘I would answer the remark if--if--’
‘If what?’
‘If it were a lady’s!’
‘You girl of impudence--what do you say? Leave the room this instant, I
tell you.’
‘And I tell you that a person who speaks to a lady as you do to me, is
no lady herself!’
‘To a lady? A lady’s-maid speaks in this way. The idea!’
‘Don’t “lady’s-maid” me: nobody is my mistress I won’t have it!’
‘Good Heavens!’
‘I wouldn’t have come--no--I wouldn’t! if I had known!’
‘What?’
‘That you were such an ill-tempered, unjust woman!’
‘Possest beyond the Muse’s painting,’ Miss Aldclyffe exclaimed--
‘A Woman, am I! I’ll teach you if I am a Woman!’ and lifted her hand as
if she would have liked to strike her companion. This stung the maiden
into absolute defiance.
‘I dare you to touch me!’ she cried. ‘Strike me if you dare, madam! I am
not afraid of you--what do you mean by such an action as that?’
Miss Aldclyffe was disconcerted at this unexpected show of spirit, and
ashamed of her unladylike impulse now it was put into words. She sank
back in the chair. ‘I was not going to strike you--go to your room--I
beg you to go to your room!’ she repeated in a husky whisper.
Cytherea, red and panting, took up her candlestick and advanced to
the table to get a light. As she stood close to them the rays from the
candles struck sharply on her face. She usually bore a much stronger
likeness to her mother than to her father, but now, looking with a
grave, reckless, and angered expression of countenance at the kindling
wick as she held it slanting into the other flame, her father’s features
were distinct in her. It was the first time Miss Aldclyffe had seen her
in a passionate mood, and wearing that expression which was invariably
its concomitant. It was Miss Aldclyffe’s turn to start now; and the
remark she made was an instance of that sudden change of tone from
high-flown invective to the pettiness of curiosity which so often makes
women’s quarrels ridiculous. Even Miss Aldclyffe’s dignity had not
sufficient power to postpone the absorbing desire she now felt to settle
the strange suspicion that had entered her head.
‘You spell your name the common way, G, R, E, Y, don’t you?’ she said,
with assumed indifference.
‘No,’ said Cytherea, poised on the side of her foot, and still looking
into the flame.
‘Yes, surely? The name was spelt that way on your boxes: I looked and
saw it myself.’
The enigma of Miss Aldclyffe’s mistake was solved. ‘O, was it?’ said
Cytherea. ‘Ah, I remember Mrs. Jackson, the lodging-house keeper at
Budmouth, labelled them. We spell our name G, R, A, Y, E.’
‘What was your father’s trade?’
Cytherea thought it would be useless to attempt to conceal facts any
longer. ‘His was not a trade,’ she said. ‘He was an architect.’
‘The idea of your being an architect’s daughter!’
‘There’s nothing to offend you in that, I hope?’
‘O no.’
‘Why did you say “the idea”?’
‘Leave that alone. Did he ever visit in Gower Street, Bloomsbury, one
Christmas, many years ago?--but you would not know that.’
‘I have heard him say that Mr. Huntway, a curate somewhere in that part
of London, and who died there, was an old college friend of his.’
‘What is your Christian name?’
‘Cytherea.’
‘No! And is it really? And you knew that face I showed you? Yes, I see
you did.’ Miss Aldclyffe stopped, and closed her lips impassibly. She
was a little agitated.
‘Do you want me any longer?’ said Cytherea, standing candle in hand and
looking quietly in Miss Aldclyffe’s face.
‘Well--no: no longer,’ said the other lingeringly.
‘With your permission, I will leave the house to morrow morning, madam.’
‘Ah.’ Miss Aldclyffe had no notion of what she was saying.
‘And I know you will be so good as not to intrude upon me during the
short remainder of my stay?’
Saying this Cytherea left the room before her companion had answered.
Miss Aldclyffe, then, had recognized her at last, and had been curious
about her name from the beginning.
The other members of the household had retired to rest. As Cytherea went
along the passage leading to her room her skirts rustled against the
partition. A door on her left opened, and Mrs. Morris looked out.
‘I waited out of bed till you came up,’ she said, ‘it being your first
night, in case you should be at a loss for anything. How have you got on
with Miss Aldclyffe?’
‘Pretty well--though not so well as I could have wished.’
‘Has she been scolding?’
‘A little.’
‘She’s a very odd lady--‘tis all one way or the other with her. She’s
not bad at heart, but unbearable in close quarters. Those of us who
don’t have much to do with her personally, stay on for years and years.’
‘Has Miss Aldclyffe’s family always been rich?’ said Cytherea.
‘O no. The property, with the name, came from her mother’s uncle. Her
family is a branch of the old Aldclyffe family on the maternal side. Her
mother married a Bradleigh--a mere nobody at that time--and was on that
account cut by her relations. But very singularly the other branch of
the family died out one by one--three of them, and Miss Aldclyffe’s
great-uncle then left all his property, including this estate, to
Captain Bradleigh and his wife--Miss Aldclyffe’s father and mother--on
condition that they took the old family name as well. There’s all about
it in the “Landed Gentry.” ‘Tis a thing very often done.’
‘O, I see. Thank you. Well, now I am going. Good-night.’