Desperate Remedies
‘The whole town is looking out for us,’ had been Graye’s impression
throughout the day. He called upon Mr. Gradfield--the only man who had
been directly informed of his coming--and found that Mr. Gradfield had
forgotten it.
However, arrangements were made with this gentleman--a stout, active,
grey-bearded burgher of sixty--by which Owen was to commence work in his
office the following week.
The same day Cytherea drew up and sent off the advertisement appended:--
‘A YOUNG LADY is desirous of meeting with an _engagement_ as
_governess_ or _companion_. She is competent to teach English,
French, and Music. Satisfactory references--Address, C. G.,
Post-Office, Budmouth.’
It seemed a more material existence than her own that she saw thus
delineated on the paper. ‘That can’t be myself; how odd I look!’ she
said, and smiled.
2. JULY THE ELEVENTH
On the Monday subsequent to their arrival in Budmouth, Owen Graye
attended at Mr. Gradfield’s office to enter upon his duties, and his
sister was left in their lodgings alone for the first time.
Despite the sad occurrences of the preceding autumn, an unwonted
cheerfulness pervaded her spirit throughout the day. Change of
scene--and that to untravelled eyes--conjoined with the sensation of
freedom from supervision, revived the sparkle of a warm young nature
ready enough to take advantage of any adventitious restoratives.
Point-blank grief tends rather to seal up happiness for a time than to
produce that attrition which results from griefs of anticipation that
move onward with the days: these may be said to furrow away the capacity
for pleasure.
Her expectations from the advertisement began to be extravagant. A
thriving family, who had always sadly needed her, was already definitely
pictured in her fancy, which, in its exuberance, led her on to picturing
its individual members, their possible peculiarities, virtues, and
vices, and obliterated for a time the recollection that she would be
separated from her brother.
Thus musing, as she waited for his return in the evening, her eyes fell
on her left hand. The contemplation of her own left fourth finger by
symbol-loving girlhood of this age is, it seems, very frequently, if
not always, followed by a peculiar train of romantic ideas. Cytherea’s
thoughts, still playing about her future, became directed into this
romantic groove. She leant back in her chair, and taking hold of the
fourth finger, which had attracted her attention, she lifted it with the
tips of the others, and looked at the smooth and tapering member for a
long time.
She whispered idly, ‘I wonder who and what he will be?
‘If he’s a gentleman of fashion, he will take my finger so, just with
the tips of his own, and with some fluttering of the heart, and the
least trembling of his lip, slip the ring so lightly on that I shall
hardly know it is there--looking delightfully into my eyes all the time.
‘If he’s a bold, dashing soldier, I expect he will proudly turn round,
take the ring as if it equalled her Majesty’s crown in value, and
desperately set it on my finger thus. He will fix his eyes unflinchingly
upon what he is doing--just as if he stood in battle before the enemy
(though, in reality, very fond of me, of course), and blush as much as I
shall.
‘If he’s a sailor, he will take my finger and the ring in this way,
and deck it out with a housewifely touch and a tenderness of expression
about his mouth, as sailors do: kiss it, perhaps, with a simple air, as
if we were children playing an idle game, and not at the very height of
observation and envy by a great crowd saying, “Ah! they are happy now!”
‘If he should be rather a poor man--noble-minded and affectionate, but
still poor--’
Owen’s footsteps rapidly ascending the stairs, interrupted this
fancy-free meditation. Reproaching herself, even angry with herself
for allowing her mind to stray upon such subjects in the face of their
present desperate condition, she rose to meet him, and make tea.
Cytherea’s interest to know how her brother had been received at Mr.
Gradfield’s broke forth into words at once. Almost before they had sat
down to table, she began cross-examining him in the regular sisterly
way.
‘Well, Owen, how has it been with you to-day? What is the place like--do
you think you will like Mr. Gradfield?’
‘O yes. But he has not been there to-day; I have only had the head
draughtsman with me.’
Young women have a habit, not noticeable in men, of putting on at a
moment’s notice the drama of whosoever’s life they choose. Cytherea’s
interest was transferred from Mr. Gradfield to his representative.
‘What sort of a man is he?’
‘He seems a very nice fellow indeed; though of course I can hardly tell
to a certainty as yet. But I think he’s a very worthy fellow; there’s
no nonsense in him, and though he is not a public school man he has read
widely, and has a sharp appreciation of what’s good in books and art.
In fact, his knowledge isn’t nearly so exclusive as most professional
men’s.’
‘That’s a great deal to say of an architect, for of all professional men
they are, as a rule, the most professional.’
‘Yes; perhaps they are. This man is rather of a melancholy turn of mind,
I think.’
‘Has the managing clerk any family?’ she mildly asked, after a while,
pouring out some more tea.
‘Family; no!’
‘Well, dear Owen, how should I know?’
‘Why, of course he isn’t married. But there happened to be a
conversation about women going on in the office, and I heard him say
what he should wish his wife to be like.’
‘What would he wish his wife to be like?’ she said, with great apparent
lack of interest.
‘O, he says she must be girlish and artless: yet he would be loth to do
without a dash of womanly subtlety, ‘tis so piquant. Yes, he said, that
must be in her; she must have womanly cleverness. “And yet I should like
her to blush if only a cock-sparrow were to look at her hard,” he said,
“which brings me back to the girl again: and so I flit backwards and
forwards. I must have what comes, I suppose,” he said, “and whatever she
may be, thank God she’s no worse. However, if he might give a final hint
to Providence,” he said, “a child among pleasures, and a woman among
pains was the rough outline of his requirement.”’
‘Did he say that? What a musing creature he must be.’
‘He did, indeed.’
3. FROM THE TWELFTH TO THE FIFTEENTH OF JULY
As is well known, ideas are so elastic in a human brain, that they have
no constant measure which may be called their actual bulk. Any important
idea may be compressed to a molecule by an unwonted crowding of others;
and any small idea will expand to whatever length and breadth of vacuum
the mind may be able to make over to it. Cytherea’s world was tolerably
vacant at this time, and the young architectural designer’s image became
very pervasive. The next evening this subject was again renewed.
‘His name is Springrove,’ said Owen, in reply to her. ‘He is a thorough
artist, but a man of rather humble origin, it seems, who has made
himself so far. I think he is the son of a farmer, or something of the
kind.’
‘Well, he’s none the worse for that, I suppose.’
‘None the worse. As we come down the hill, we shall be continually
meeting people going up.’ But Owen had felt that Springrove was a little
the worse nevertheless.
‘Of course he’s rather old by this time.’
‘O no. He’s about six-and-twenty--not more.’
‘Ah, I see.... What is he like, Owen?’
‘I can’t exactly tell you his appearance: ‘tis always such a difficult
thing to do.’
‘A man you would describe as short? Most men are those we should
describe as short, I fancy.’
‘I should call him, I think, of the middle height; but as I only see
him sitting in the office, of course I am not certain about his form and
figure.’
‘I wish you were, then.’
‘Perhaps you do. But I am not, you see.’
‘Of course not, you are always so provoking. Owen, I saw a man in the
street to-day whom I fancied was he--and yet, I don’t see how it could
be, either. He had light brown hair, a snub nose, very round face, and
a peculiar habit of reducing his eyes to straight lines when he looked
narrowly at anything.’
‘O no. That was not he, Cytherea.’
‘Not a bit like him in all probability.’
‘Not a bit. He has dark hair--almost a Grecian nose, regular teeth, and
an intellectual face, as nearly as I can recall to mind.’
‘Ah, there now, Owen, you _have_ described him! But I suppose he’s not
generally called pleasing, or--’
‘Handsome?’
‘I scarcely meant that. But since you have said it, is he handsome?’
‘Rather.’
‘His tout ensemble is striking?’
‘Yes--O no, no--I forgot: it is not. He is rather untidy in his
waistcoat, and neck-ties, and hair.’
‘How vexing!... it must be to himself, poor thing.’
‘He’s a thorough bookworm--despises the pap-and-daisy school of
verse--knows Shakespeare to the very dregs of the foot-notes. Indeed,
he’s a poet himself in a small way.’
‘How delicious!’ she said. ‘I have never known a poet.’
‘And you don’t know him,’ said Owen dryly.
She reddened. ‘Of course I don’t. I know that.’
‘Have you received any answer to your advertisement?’ he inquired.
‘Ah--no!’ she said, and the forgotten disappointment which had showed
itself in her face at different times during the day, became visible
again.
Another day passed away. On Thursday, without inquiry, she learnt more
of the head draughtsman. He and Graye had become very friendly, and he
had been tempted to show her brother a copy of some poems of his--some
serious and sad--some humorous--which had appeared in the poets’ corner
of a magazine from time to time. Owen showed them now to Cytherea, who
instantly began to read them carefully and to think them very beautiful.
‘Yes--Springrove’s no fool,’ said Owen sententiously.
‘No fool!--I should think he isn’t, indeed,’ said Cytherea, looking up
from the paper in quite an excitement: ‘to write such verses as these!’
‘What logic are you chopping, Cytherea? Well, I don’t mean on account of
the verses, because I haven’t read them; but for what he said when the
fellows were talking about falling in love.’
‘Which you will tell me?’
‘He says that your true lover breathlessly finds himself engaged to a
sweetheart, like a man who has caught something in the dark. He doesn’t
know whether it is a bat or a bird, and takes it to the light when he is
cool to learn what it is. He looks to see if she is the right age, but
right age or wrong age, he must consider her a prize. Sometime later he
ponders whether she is the right kind of prize for him. Right kind or
wrong kind--he has called her his, and must abide by it. After a time he
asks himself, “Has she the temper, hair, and eyes I meant to have, and
was firmly resolved not to do without?” He finds it is all wrong, and
then comes the tussle--’
‘Do they marry and live happily?’
‘Who? O, the supposed pair. I think he said--well, I really forget what
he said.’
‘That _is_ stupid of you!’ said the young lady with dismay.
‘Yes.’
‘But he’s a satirist--I don’t think I care about him now.’
‘There you are just wrong. He is not. He is, as I believe, an impulsive
fellow who has been made to pay the penalty of his rashness in some love
affair.’
Thus ended the dialogue of Thursday, but Cytherea read the verses again
in private. On Friday her brother remarked that Springrove had informed
him he was going to leave Mr. Gradfield’s in a fortnight to push his
fortunes in London.
An indescribable feeling of sadness shot through Cytherea’s heart.
Why should she be sad at such an announcement as that, she thought,
concerning a man she had never seen, when her spirits were elastic
enough to rebound after hard blows from deep and real troubles as if she