Cytherea awoke, quiet in mind and refreshed. A conclusion to remain at
Knapwater was already in possession of her.
Finding Miss Aldclyffe gone, she dressed herself and sat down at the
window to write an answer to Edward’s letter, and an account of her
arrival at Knapwater to Owen. The dismal and heart-breaking pictures
that Miss Aldclyffe had placed before her the preceding evening, the
later terrors of the night, were now but as shadows of shadows, and she
smiled in derision at her own excitability.
But writing Edward’s letter was the great consoler, the effect of each
word upon him being enacted in her own face as she wrote it. She felt
how much she would like to share his trouble--how well she could endure
poverty with him--and wondered what his trouble was. But all would be
explained at last, she knew.
At the appointed time she went to Miss Aldclyffe’s room, intending, with
the contradictoriness common in people, to perform with pleasure, as a
work of supererogation, what as a duty was simply intolerable.
Miss Aldclyffe was already out of bed. The bright penetrating light
of morning made a vast difference in the elder lady’s behaviour to her
dependent; the day, which had restored Cytherea’s judgment, had effected
the same for Miss Aldclyffe. Though practical reasons forbade her
regretting that she had secured such a companionable creature to read,
talk, or play to her whenever her whim required, she was inwardly vexed
at the extent to which she had indulged in the womanly luxury of making
confidences and giving way to emotions. Few would have supposed that the
calm lady sitting aristocratically at the toilet table, seeming scarcely
conscious of Cytherea’s presence in the room, even when greeting her,
was the passionate creature who had asked for kisses a few hours before.
It is both painful and satisfactory to think how often these
antitheses are to be observed in the individual most open to our
observation--ourselves. We pass the evening with faces lit up by some
flaring illumination or other: we get up the next morning--the fiery
jets have all gone out, and nothing confronts us but a few crinkled
pipes and sooty wirework, hardly even recalling the outline of the
blazing picture that arrested our eyes before bedtime.
Emotions would be half starved if there were no candle-light. Probably
nine-tenths of the gushing letters of indiscreet confession are written
after nine or ten o’clock in the evening, and sent off before day
returns to leer invidiously upon them. Few that remain open to catch
our glance as we rise in the morning, survive the frigid criticism of
dressing-time.
The subjects uppermost in the minds of the two women who had thus cooled
from their fires, were not the visionary ones of the later hours,
but the hard facts of their earlier conversation. After a remark that
Cytherea need not assist her in dressing unless she wished to, Miss
Aldclyffe said abruptly--
‘I can tell that young man’s name.’ She looked keenly at Cytherea. ‘It
is Edward Springrove, my tenant’s son.’
The inundation of colour upon the younger lady at hearing a name which
to her was a world, handled as if it were only an atom, told Miss
Aldclyffe that she had divined the truth at last.
‘Ah--it is he, is it?’ she continued. ‘Well, I wanted to know for
practical reasons. His example shows that I was not so far wrong in my
estimate of men after all, though I only generalized, and had no thought
of him.’ This was perfectly true.
‘What do you mean?’ said Cytherea, visibly alarmed.
‘Mean? Why that all the world knows him to be engaged to be married, and
that the wedding is soon to take place.’ She made the remark bluntly and
superciliously, as if to obtain absolution at the hands of her family
pride for the weak confidences of the night.
But even the frigidity of Miss Aldclyffe’s morning mood was overcome by
the look of sick and blank despair which the carelessly uttered words
had produced upon Cytherea’s face. She sank back into a chair, and
buried her face in her hands.
‘Don’t be so foolish,’ said Miss Aldclyffe. ‘Come, make the best of it.
I cannot upset the fact I have told you of, unfortunately. But I believe
the match can be broken off.’
‘O no, no.’
‘Nonsense. I liked him much as a youth, and I like him now. I’ll help
you to captivate and chain him down. I have got over my absurd feeling
of last night in not wanting you ever to go away from me--of course, I
could not expect such a thing as that. There, now I have said I’ll help
you, and that’s enough. He’s tired of his first choice now that he’s
been away from home for a while. The love that no outer attack can
frighten away quails before its idol’s own homely ways; it is always
so.... Come, finish what you are doing if you are going to, and don’t be
a little goose about such a trumpery affair as that.’
‘Who--is he engaged to?’ Cytherea inquired by a movement of her lips but
no sound of her voice. But Miss Aldclyffe did not answer. It mattered
not, Cytherea thought. Another woman--that was enough for her: curiosity
was stunned.
She applied herself to the work of dressing, scarcely knowing how. Miss
Aldclyffe went on:--
‘You were too easily won. I’d have made him or anybody else speak out
before he should have kissed my face for his pleasure. But you are one
of those precipitantly fond things who are yearning to throw away their
hearts upon the first worthless fellow who says good-morning. In the
first place, you shouldn’t have loved him so quickly: in the next,
if you must have loved him off-hand, you should have concealed it. It
tickled his vanity: “By Jove, that girl’s in love with me already!” he
thought.’
To hasten away at the end of the toilet, to tell Mrs. Morris--who
stood waiting in a little room prepared for her, with tea poured out,
bread-and-butter cut into diaphanous slices, and eggs arranged--that she
wanted no breakfast: then to shut herself alone in her bedroom, was her
only thought. She was followed thither by the well-intentioned
matron with a cup of tea and one piece of bread-and-butter on a tray,
cheerfully insisting that she should eat it.
To those who grieve, innocent cheerfulness seems heartless levity. ‘No,
thank you, Mrs. Morris,’ she said, keeping the door closed. Despite
the incivility of the action, Cytherea could not bear to let a pleasant
person see her face then.
Immediate revocation--even if revocation would be more effective by
postponement--is the impulse of young wounded natures. Cytherea went
to her blotting-book, took out the long letter so carefully written, so
full of gushing remarks and tender hints, and sealed up so neatly with
a little seal bearing ‘Good Faith’ as its motto, tore the missive into
fifty pieces, and threw them into the grate. It was then the bitterest
of anguishes to look upon some of the words she had so lovingly written,
and see them existing only in mutilated forms without meaning--to feel
that his eye would never read them, nobody ever know how ardently she
had penned them.
Pity for one’s self for being wasted is mostly present in these moods of
abnegation.
The meaning of all his allusions, his abruptness in telling her of his
love, his constraint at first, then his desperate manner of speaking,
was clear. They must have been the last flickerings of a conscience not
quite dead to all sense of perfidiousness and fickleness. Now he had
gone to London: she would be dismissed from his memory, in the same way
as Miss Aldclyffe had said. And here she was in Edward’s own parish,
reminded continually of him by what she saw and heard. The landscape,
yesterday so much and so bright to her, was now but as the banquet-hall
deserted--all gone but herself.
Miss Aldclyffe had wormed her secret out of her, and would now be
continually mocking her for her trusting simplicity in believing him. It
was altogether unbearable: she would not stay there.
She went downstairs and found Miss Aldclyffe had gone into the
breakfast-room, but that Captain Aldclyffe, who rose later with
increasing infirmities, had not yet made his appearance. Cytherea
entered. Miss Aldclyffe was looking out of the window, watching a trail
of white smoke along the distant landscape--signifying a passing train.
At Cytherea’s entry she turned and looked inquiry.
‘I must tell you now,’ began Cytherea, in a tremulous voice.
‘Well, what?’ Miss Aldclyffe said.
‘I am not going to stay with you. I must go away--a very long way. I am
very sorry, but indeed I can’t remain!’
‘Pooh--what shall we hear next?’ Miss Aldclyffe surveyed Cytherea’s face
with leisurely criticism. ‘You are breaking your heart again about that
worthless young Springrove. I knew how it would be. It is as Hallam says
of Juliet--what little reason you may have possessed originally has all
been whirled away by this love. I shan’t take this notice, mind.’
‘Do let me go!’
Miss Aldclyffe took her new pet’s hand, and said with severity, ‘As to
hindering you, if you are determined to go, of course that’s absurd.
But you are not now in a state of mind fit for deciding upon any such
proceeding, and I shall not listen to what you have to say. Now, Cythie,
come with me; we’ll let this volcano burst and spend itself, and after
that we’ll see what had better be done.’ She took Cytherea into her
workroom, opened a drawer, and drew forth a roll of linen.
‘This is some embroidery I began one day, and now I should like it
finished.’
She then preceded the maiden upstairs to Cytherea’s own room. ‘There,’
she said, ‘now sit down here, go on with this work, and remember one
thing--that you are not to leave the room on any pretext whatever for
two hours unless I send for you--I insist kindly, dear. Whilst you
stitch--you are to stitch, recollect, and not go mooning out of the
window--think over the whole matter, and get cooled; don’t let the
foolish love-affair prevent your thinking as a woman of the world. If
at the end of that time you still say you must leave me, you may. I will
have no more to say in the matter. Come, sit down, and promise to sit
here the time I name.’
To hearts in a despairing mood, compulsion seems a relief; and docility
was at all times natural to Cytherea. She promised, and sat down. Miss
Aldclyffe shut the door upon her and retreated.
She sewed, stopped to think, shed a tear or two, recollected the
articles of the treaty, and sewed again; and at length fell into a
reverie which took no account whatever of the lapse of time.