Desperate Remedies
But, before she heard anything, she became aware of an object reflected
in the water from under the tree which hung over the river in such a way
that, though hiding the actual path, and objects upon it, it permitted
their reflected images to pass beneath its boughs. The reflected form
was that of the man she had seen further off, but being inverted, she
could not definitely characterize him.
He was looking at the upper windows of the House--at hers--was it
Edward, indeed? If so, he was probably thinking he would like to say
one parting word. He came closer, gazed into the stream, and walked very
slowly. She was almost certain that it was Edward. She kept more safely
hidden. Conscience told her that she ought not to see him. But she
suddenly asked herself a question: ‘Can it be possible that he sees my
reflected image, as I see his? Of course he does!’
He was looking at her in the water.
She could not help herself now. She stepped forward just as he emerged
from the other side of the tree and appeared erect before her. It was
Edward Springrove--till the inverted vision met his eye, dreaming no
more of seeing his Cytherea there than of seeing the dead themselves.
‘Cytherea!’
‘Mr. Springrove,’ she returned, in a low voice, across the stream.
He was the first to speak again.
‘Since we have met, I want to tell you something, before we become quite
as strangers to each other.’
‘No--not now--I did not mean to speak--it is not right, Edward.’ She
spoke hurriedly and turned away from him, beating the air with her hand.
‘Not one common word of explanation?’ he implored. ‘Don’t think I am bad
enough to try to lead you astray. Well, go--it is better.’
Their eyes met again. She was nearly choked. O, how she longed--and
dreaded--to hear his explanation!
‘What is it?’ she said desperately.
‘It is that I did not come to the church this morning in order to
distress you: I did not, Cytherea. It was to try to speak to you before
you were--married.’
He stepped closer, and went on, ‘You know what has taken place? Surely
you do?--my cousin is married, and I am free.’
‘Married--and not to you?’ Cytherea faltered, in a weak whisper.
‘Yes, she was married yesterday! A rich man had appeared, and she jilted
me. She said she never would have jilted a stranger, but that by jilting
me, she only exercised the right everybody has of snubbing their own
relations. But that’s nothing now. I came to you to ask once more if....
But I was too late.’
‘But, Edward, what’s that, what’s that!’ she cried, in an agony of
reproach. ‘Why did you leave me to return to her? Why did you write me
that cruel, cruel letter that nearly killed me!’
‘Cytherea! Why, you had grown to love--like--Mr. Manston, and how could
you be anything to me--or care for me? Surely I acted naturally?’
‘O no--never! I loved you--only you--not him--always you!--till
lately.... I try to love him now.’
‘But that can’t be correct! Miss Aldclyffe told me that you wanted to
hear no more of me--proved it to me!’ said Edward.
‘Never! she couldn’t.’
‘She did, Cytherea. And she sent me a letter--a love-letter, you wrote
to Mr. Manston.’
‘A love-letter I wrote?’
‘Yes, a love-letter--you could not meet him just then, you said you
were sorry, but the emotion you had felt with him made you forgetful of
realities.’
The strife of thought in the unhappy girl who listened to this
distortion of her meaning could find no vent in words. And then there
followed the slow revelation in return, bringing with it all the misery
of an explanation which comes too late. The question whether Miss
Aldclyffe were schemer or dupe was almost passed over by Cytherea,
under the immediate oppressiveness of her despair in the sense that her
position was irretrievable.
Not so Springrove. He saw through all the cunning
half-misrepresentations--worse than downright lies--which had just been
sufficient to turn the scale both with him and with her; and from the
bottom of his soul he cursed the woman and man who had brought all this
agony upon him and his Love. But he could not add more misery to the
future of the poor child by revealing too much. The whole scheme she
should never know.
‘I was indifferent to my own future,’ Edward said, ‘and was urged to
promise adherence to my engagement with my cousin Adelaide by Miss
Aldclyffe: now you are married I cannot tell you how, but it was on
account of my father. Being forbidden to think of you, what did I care
about anything? My new thought that you still loved me was first raised
by what my father said in the letter announcing my cousin’s marriage. He
said that although you were to be married on Old Christmas Day--that
is to-morrow--he had noticed your appearance with pity: he thought
you loved me still. It was enough for me--I came down by the earliest
morning train, thinking I could see you some time to-day, the day, as I
thought, before your marriage, hoping, but hardly daring to hope, that
you might be induced to marry me. I hurried from the station; when I
reached the village I saw idlers about the church, and the private gate
leading to the House open. I ran into the church by the small door and
saw you come out of the vestry; I was too late. I have now told you.
I was compelled to tell you. O, my lost darling, now I shall live
content--or die content!’
‘I am to blame, Edward, I am,’ she said mournfully; ‘I was taught to
dread pauperism; my nights were made sleepless; there was continually
reiterated in my ears till I believed it--
‘“The world and its ways have a certain worth,
And to press a point where these oppose
Were a simple policy.”
‘But I will say nothing about who influenced--who persuaded. The act
is mine, after all. Edward, I married to escape dependence for my bread
upon the whim of Miss Aldclyffe, or others like her. It was clearly
represented to me that dependence is bearable if we have another place
which we can call home; but to be a dependent and to have no other spot
for the heart to anchor upon--O, it is mournful and harassing!... But
that without which all persuasion would have been as air, was added by
my miserable conviction that you were false; that did it, that turned
me! You were to be considered as nobody to me, and Mr. Manston was
invariably kind. Well, the deed is done--I must abide by it. I shall
never let him know that I do not love him--never. If things had only
remained as they seemed to be, if you had really forgotten me and
married another woman, I could have borne it better. I wish I did not
know the truth as I know it now! But our life, what is it? Let us be
brave, Edward, and live out our few remaining years with dignity. They
will not be long. O, I hope they will not be long!... Now, good-bye,
good-bye!’
‘I wish I could be near and touch you once, just once,’ said Springrove,
in a voice which he vainly endeavoured to keep firm and clear.
They looked at the river, then into it; a shoal of minnows was floating
over the sandy bottom, like the black dashes on miniver; though narrow,
the stream was deep, and there was no bridge.
‘Cytherea, reach out your hand that I may just touch it with mine.’
She stepped to the brink and stretched out her hand and fingers towards
his, but not into them. The river was too wide.
‘Never mind,’ said Cytherea, her voice broken by agitation, ‘I must be
going. God bless and keep you, my Edward! God bless you!’
‘I must touch you, I must press your hand,’ he said.
They came near--nearer--nearer still--their fingers met. There was
a long firm clasp, so close and still that each hand could feel the
other’s pulse throbbing beside its own.
‘My Cytherea! my stolen pet lamb!’
She glanced a mute farewell from her large perturbed eyes, turned, and
ran up the garden without looking back. All was over between them.
The river flowed on as quietly and obtusely as ever, and the minnows
gathered again in their favourite spot as if they had never been
disturbed.
Nobody indoors guessed from her countenance and bearing that her heart
was near to breaking with the intensity of the misery which gnawed
there. At these times a woman does not faint, or weep, or scream, as she
will in the moment of sudden shocks. When lanced by a mental agony
of such refined and special torture that it is indescribable by men’s
words, she moves among her acquaintances much as before, and contrives
so to cast her actions in the old moulds that she is only considered to
be rather duller than usual.
5. HALF-PAST TWO TO FIVE O’CLOCK P.M.
Owen accompanied the newly-married couple to the railway-station, and in
his anxiety to see the last of his sister, left the brougham and stood
upon his crutches whilst the train was starting.
When the husband and wife were about to enter the railway-carriage they
saw one of the porters looking frequently and furtively at them. He was
pale, and apparently very ill.
‘Look at that poor sick man,’ said Cytherea compassionately, ‘surely he
ought not to be here.’
‘He’s been very queer to-day, madam, very queer,’ another porter
answered. ‘He do hardly hear when he’s spoken to, and d’ seem giddy, or
as if something was on his mind. He’s been like it for this month past,
but nothing so bad as he is to-day.’
‘Poor thing.’
She could not resist an innate desire to do some just thing on this most
deceitful and wretched day of her life. Going up to him she gave him
money, and told him to send to the old manor-house for wine or whatever
he wanted.
The train moved off as the trembling man was murmuring his incoherent
thanks. Owen waved his hand; Cytherea smiled back to him as if it were
unknown to her that she wept all the while.
Owen was driven back to the Old House. But he could not rest in the
lonely place. His conscience began to reproach him for having forced on
the marriage of his sister with a little too much peremptoriness. Taking
up his crutches he went out of doors and wandered about the muddy roads
with no object in view save that of getting rid of time.
The clouds which had hung so low and densely during the day cleared from
the west just now as the sun was setting, calling forth a weakly twitter
from a few small birds. Owen crawled down the path to the waterfall, and
lingered thereabout till the solitude of the place oppressed him, when
he turned back and into the road to the village. He was sad; he said to
himself--
‘If there is ever any meaning in those heavy feelings which are called
presentiments--and I don’t believe there is--there will be in mine
to-day.... Poor little Cytherea!’
At that moment the last low rays of the sun touched the head and
shoulders of a man who was approaching, and showed him up to Owen’s
view. It was old Mr. Springrove. They had grown familiar with each other
by reason of Owen’s visits to Knapwater during the past year. The farmer
inquired how Owen’s foot was progressing, and was glad to see him so
nimble again.
‘How is your son?’ said Owen mechanically.
‘He is at home, sitting by the fire,’ said the farmer, in a sad voice.
‘This morning he slipped indoors from God knows where, and there he sits
and mopes, and thinks, and thinks, and presses his head so hard, that I
can’t help feeling for him.’
‘Is he married?’ said Owen. Cytherea had feared to tell him of the
interview in the garden.
‘No. I can’t quite understand how the matter rests.... Ah! Edward, too,
who started with such promise; that he should now have become such a
careless fellow--not a month in one place. There, Mr. Graye, I know what
it is mainly owing to. If it hadn’t been for that heart affair, he might
have done--but the less said about him the better. I don’t know what we
should have done if Miss Aldclyffe had insisted upon the conditions of