It was the third week in September, about five weeks after Cytherea’s
arrival, when Miss Aldclyffe requested her one day to go through the
village of Carriford and assist herself in collecting the subscriptions
made by some of the inhabitants of the parish to a religious society
she patronized. Miss Aldclyffe formed one of what was called a Ladies’
Association, each member of which collected tributary streams of
shillings from her inferiors, to add to her own pound at the end.
Miss Aldclyffe took particular interest in Cytherea’s appearance that
afternoon, and the object of her attention was, indeed, gratifying
to look at. The sight of the lithe girl, set off by an airy dress,
coquettish jacket, flexible hat, a ray of starlight in each eye and a
war of lilies and roses in each cheek, was a palpable pleasure to the
mistress of the mansion, yet a pleasure which appeared to partake less
of the nature of affectionate satisfaction than of mental gratification.
Eight names were printed in the report as belonging to Miss Aldclyffe’s
list, with the amount of subscription-money attached to each.
‘I will collect the first four, whilst you do the same with the last
four,’ said Miss Aldclyffe.
The names of two tradespeople stood first in Cytherea’s share: then came
a Miss Hinton: last of all in the printed list was Mr. Springrove
the elder. Underneath his name was pencilled, in Miss Aldclyffe’s
handwriting, ‘Mr. Manston.’
Manston had arrived on the estate, in the capacity of steward, three or
four days previously, and occupied the old manor-house, which had been
altered and repaired for his reception.
‘Call on Mr. Manston,’ said the lady impressively, looking at the name
written under Cytherea’s portion of the list.
‘But he does not subscribe yet?’
‘I know it; but call and leave him a report. Don’t forget it.’
‘Say you would be pleased if he would subscribe?’
‘Yes--say I should be pleased if he would,’ repeated Miss Aldclyffe,
smiling. ‘Good-bye. Don’t hurry in your walk. If you can’t get easily
through your task to-day put off some of it till to-morrow.’
Each then started on her rounds: Cytherea going in the first place to
the old manor-house. Mr. Manston was not indoors, which was a relief
to her. She called then on the two gentleman-farmers’ wives, who
soon transacted their business with her, frigidly indifferent to her
personality. A person who socially is nothing is thought less of by
people who are not much than by those who are a great deal.
She then turned towards Peakhill Cottage, the residence of Miss Hinton,
who lived there happily enough, with an elderly servant and a house-dog
as companions. Her father, and last remaining parent, had retired
thither four years before this time, after having filled the post of
editor to the Casterbridge Chronicle for eighteen or twenty years. There
he died soon after, and though comparatively a poor man, he left his
daughter sufficiently well provided for as a modest fundholder and
claimant of sundry small sums in dividends to maintain herself as
mistress at Peakhill.
At Cytherea’s knock an inner door was heard to open and close, and
footsteps crossed the passage hesitatingly. The next minute Cytherea
stood face to face with the lady herself.
Adelaide Hinton was about nine-and-twenty years of age. Her hair
was plentiful, like Cytherea’s own; her teeth equalled Cytherea’s in
regularity and whiteness. But she was much paler, and had features
too transparent to be in place among household surroundings. Her mouth
expressed love less forcibly than Cytherea’s, and, as a natural result
of her greater maturity, her tread was less elastic, and she was more
self-possessed.
She had been a girl of that kind which mothers praise as not forward, by
way of contrast, when disparaging those warmer ones with whom loving is
an end and not a means. Men of forty, too, said of her, ‘a good sensible
wife for any man, if she cares to marry,’ the caring to marry being
thrown in as the vaguest hypothesis, because she was so practical.
Yet it would be singular if, in such cases, the important subject of
marriage should be excluded from manipulation by hands that are ready
for practical performance in every domestic concern besides.
Cytherea was an acquisition, and the greeting was hearty.
‘Good afternoon! O yes--Miss Graye, from Miss Aldclyffe’s. I have seen
you at church, and I am so glad you have called! Come in. I wonder if I
have change enough to pay my subscription.’ She spoke girlishly.
Adelaide, when in the company of a younger woman, always levelled
herself down to that younger woman’s age from a sense of justice to
herself--as if, though not her own age at common law, it was in equity.
‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll come again.’
‘Yes, do at any time; not only on this errand. But you must step in for
a minute. Do.’
‘I have been wanting to come for several weeks.’
‘That’s right. Now you must see my house--lonely, isn’t it, for a single
person? People said it was odd for a young woman like me to keep on a
house; but what did I care? If you knew the pleasure of locking up your
own door, with the sensation that you reigned supreme inside it, you
would say it was worth the risk of being called odd. Mr. Springrove
attends to my gardening, the dog attends to robbers, and whenever there
is a snake or toad to kill, Jane does it.’
‘How nice! It is better than living in a town.’
‘Far better. A town makes a cynic of me.’
The remark recalled, somewhat startlingly, to Cytherea’s mind, that
Edward had used those very words to herself one evening at Budmouth.
Miss Hinton opened an interior door and led her visitor into a small
drawing-room commanding a view of the country for miles.
The missionary business was soon settled; but the chat continued.
‘How lonely it must be here at night!’ said Cytherea. ‘Aren’t you
afraid?’
‘At first I was, slightly. But I got used to the solitude. And you know
a sort of commonsense will creep even into timidity. I say to myself
sometimes at night, “If I were anybody but a harmless woman, not worth
the trouble of a worm’s ghost to appear to me, I should think that every
sound I hear was a spirit.” But you must see all over my house.’
Cytherea was highly interested in seeing.
‘I say you _must_ do this, and you _must_ do that, as if you were a
child,’ remarked Adelaide. ‘A privileged friend of mine tells me this
use of the imperative comes of being so constantly in nobody’s society
but my own.’
‘Ah, yes. I suppose she is right.’
Cytherea called the friend ‘she’ by a rule of ladylike practice; for a
woman’s ‘friend’ is delicately assumed by another friend to be of their
own sex in the absence of knowledge to the contrary; just as cats are
called she’s until they prove themselves he’s.
Miss Hinton laughed mysteriously.
‘I get a humorous reproof for it now and then, I assure you,’ she
continued.
‘“Humorous reproof:” that’s not from a woman: who can reprove humorously
but a man?’ was the groove of Cytherea’s thought at the remark. ‘Your
brother reproves you, I expect,’ said that innocent young lady.
‘No,’ said Miss Hinton, with a candid air. ‘’Tis only a professional man
I am acquainted with.’ She looked out of the window.
Women are persistently imitative. No sooner did a thought flash
through Cytherea’s mind that the man was a lover than she became a Miss
Aldclyffe in a mild form.
‘I imagine he’s a lover,’ she said.
Miss Hinton smiled a smile of experience in that line.
Few women, if taxed with having an admirer, are so free from vanity
as to deny the impeachment, even if it is utterly untrue. When it does
happen to be true, they look pityingly away from the person who is so
benighted as to have got no further than suspecting it.
‘There now--Miss Hinton; you are engaged to be married!’ said Cytherea
accusingly.
Adelaide nodded her head practically. ‘Well, yes, I am,’ she said.
The word ‘engaged’ had no sooner passed Cytherea’s lips than the sound
of it--the mere sound of her own lips--carried her mind to the time and
circumstances under which Miss Aldclyffe had used it towards herself.
A sickening thought followed--based but on a mere surmise; yet its
presence took every other idea away from Cytherea’s mind. Miss Hinton
had used Edward’s words about towns; she mentioned Mr. Springrove as
attending to her garden. It could not be that Edward was the man! that
Miss Aldclyffe had planned to reveal her rival thus!
‘Are you going to be married soon?’ she inquired, with a steadiness the
result of a sort of fascination, but apparently of indifference.
‘Not very soon--still, soon.’
‘Ah-ha! In less than three months?’ said Cytherea.
‘Two.’
Now that the subject was well in hand, Adelaide wanted no more
prompting. ‘You won’t tell anybody if I show you something?’ she said,
with eager mystery.
‘O no, nobody. But does he live in this parish?’
‘No.’
Nothing proved yet.
‘What’s his name?’ said Cytherea flatly. Her breath and heart had begun
their old tricks, and came and went hotly. Miss Hinton could not see her
face.
‘What do you think?’ said Miss Hinton.
‘George?’ said Cytherea, with deceitful agony.
‘No,’ said Adelaide. ‘But now, you shall see him first; come here;’
and she led the way upstairs into her bedroom. There, standing on the
dressing table in a little frame, was the unconscious portrait of Edward
Springrove.
‘There he is,’ Miss Hinton said, and a silence ensued.
‘Are you very fond of him?’ continued the miserable Cytherea at length.
‘Yes, of course I am,’ her companion replied, but in the tone of one who
‘lived in Abraham’s bosom all the year,’ and was therefore untouched by
solemn thought at the fact. ‘He’s my cousin--a native of this village.
We were engaged before my father’s death left me so lonely. I was only
twenty, and a much greater belle than I am now. We know each other
thoroughly, as you may imagine. I give him a little sermonizing now and
then.’
‘Why?’
‘O, it’s only in fun. He’s very naughty sometimes--not really, you
know--but he will look at any pretty face when he sees it.’
Storing up this statement of his susceptibility as another item to
be miserable upon when she had time, ‘How do you know that?’ Cytherea
asked, with a swelling heart.
‘Well, you know how things do come to women’s ears. He used to live at
Budmouth as an assistant-architect, and I found out that a young giddy
thing of a girl who lives there somewhere took his fancy for a day
or two. But I don’t feel jealous at all--our engagement is so
matter-of-fact that neither of us can be jealous. And it was a mere
flirtation--she was too silly for him. He’s fond of rowing, and kindly
gave her an airing for an evening or two. I’ll warrant they talked the
most unmitigated rubbish under the sun--all shallowness and pastime,
just as everything is at watering places--neither of them caring a bit
for the other--she giggling like a goose all the time--’
Concentrated essence of woman pervaded the room rather than air.
‘She _didn’t_! and it _wasn’t_ shallowness!’ Cytherea burst out, with
brimming eyes. ‘’Twas deep deceit on one side, and entire confidence
on the other--yes, it was!’ The pent-up emotion had swollen and swollen
inside the young thing till the dam could no longer embay it. The
instant the words were out she would have given worlds to have been able
to recall them.
‘Do you know her--or him?’ said Miss Hinton, starting with suspicion at
the warmth shown.
The two rivals had now lost their personality quite. There was the same
keen brightness of eye, the same movement of the mouth, the same mind
in both, as they looked doubtingly and excitedly at each other. As is
invariably the case with women when a man they care for is the subject
of an excitement among them, the situation abstracted the differences
which distinguished them as individuals, and left only the properties
common to them as atoms of a sex.
Cytherea caught at the chance afforded her of not betraying herself.
‘Yes, I know her,’ she said.
‘Well,’ said Miss Hinton, ‘I am really vexed if my speaking so lightly
of any friend of yours has hurt your feelings, but--’
‘O, never mind,’ Cytherea returned; ‘it doesn’t matter, Miss Hinton. I
think I must leave you now. I have to call at other places. Yes--I must
go.’
Miss Hinton, in a perplexed state of mind, showed her visitor politely
downstairs to the door. Here Cytherea bade her a hurried adieu, and
flitted down the garden into the lane.
She persevered in her duties with a wayward pleasure in giving herself
misery, as was her wont. Mr. Springrove’s name was next on the list, and
she turned towards his dwelling, the Three Tranters Inn.