3. FROM THE TWELFTH TO THE FIFTEENTH OF JULY
965 Words
3. FROM THE TWELFTH TO THE FIFTEENTH OF
JULYAs 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 had scarcely known them? Though she could not
answer this question, she knew one thing, she was saddened by
Owen's news.
- Writer
