Owen Graye’s recovery from the illness that had incapacitated him for so
long a time was, professionally, the dawn of a brighter prospect for him
in every direction, though the change was at first very gradual, and
his movements and efforts were little more than mechanical. With the
lengthening of the days, and the revival of building operations for the
forthcoming season, he saw himself, for the first time, on a road which,
pursued with care, would probably lead to a comfortable income at some
future day. But he was still very low down the hill as yet.
The first undertaking entrusted to him in the new year began about a
month after his return from Southampton. Mr. Gradfield had come back
to him in the wake of his restored health, and offered him the
superintendence, as clerk of works, of a church which was to be nearly
rebuilt at the village of Tolchurch, fifteen or sixteen miles from
Budmouth, and about half that distance from Carriford.
‘I am now being paid at the rate of a hundred and fifty pounds a year,’
he said to his sister in a burst of thankfulness, ‘and you shall never,
Cytherea, be at any tyrannous lady’s beck and call again as long as
I live. Never pine or think about what has happened, dear; it’s no
disgrace to you. Cheer up; you’ll be somebody’s happy wife yet.’
He did not say Edward Springrove’s, for, greatly to his disappointment,
a report had reached his ears that the friend to whom Cytherea owed
so much had been about to pack up his things and sail for Australia.
However, this was before the uncertainty concerning Mrs. Manston’s
existence had been dispersed by her return, a phenomenon that altered
the cloudy relationship in which Cytherea had lately been standing
towards her old lover, to one of distinctness; which result would have
been delightful but for circumstances about to be mentioned.
Cytherea was still pale from her recent illness, and still greatly
dejected. Until the news of Mrs. Manston’s return had reached them, she
had kept herself closely shut up during the day-time, never venturing
forth except at night. Sleeping and waking she had been in perpetual
dread lest she should still be claimed by a man whom, only a few weeks
earlier, she had regarded in the light of a future husband with quiet
assent, not unmixed with cheerfulness.
But the removal of the uneasiness in this direction--by Mrs. Manston’s
arrival, and her own consequent freedom--had been the imposition of pain
in another. Utterly fictitious details of the finding of Cytherea and
Manston had been invented and circulated, unavoidably reaching her ears
in the course of time. Thus the freedom brought no happiness, and it
seemed well-nigh impossible that she could ever again show herself the
sparkling creature she once had been--
‘Apt to entice a deity.’
On this account, and for the first time in his life, Owen made a point
of concealing from her the real state of his feelings with regard to the
unhappy transaction. He writhed in secret under the humiliation to which
they had been subjected, till the resentment it gave rise to, and for
which there was no vent, was sometimes beyond endurance; it induced a
mood that did serious damage to the material and plodding perseverance
necessary if he would secure permanently the comforts of a home for
them.
They gave up their lodgings at Budmouth, and went to Tolchurch as soon
as the work commenced.
Here they were domiciled in one half of an old farmhouse, standing not
far from the ivy-covered church tower (which was all that was to remain
of the original structure). The long steep roof of this picturesque
dwelling sloped nearly down to the ground, the old tiles that covered
it being overgrown with rich olive-hued moss. New red tiles in twos and
threes had been used for patching the holes wrought by decay, lighting
up the whole harmonious surface with dots of brilliant scarlet.
The chief internal features of this snug abode were a wide fireplace,
enormous cupboards, a brown settle, and several sketches on the wood
mantel, done in outline with the point of a hot poker--the subjects
mainly consisting of old men walking painfully erect, with a
curly-tailed dog behind.
After a week or two of residence in Tolchurch, and rambles amid the
quaint scenery circumscribing it, a tranquillity began to spread itself
through the mind of the maiden, which Graye hoped would be a preface to
her complete restoration. She felt ready and willing to live the whole
remainder of her days in the retirement of their present quarters: she
began to sing about the house in low tremulous snatches--
‘“--I said, if there’s peace to be found in the world,
A heart that is humble may hope for it here.”’