20 Must-Read Thriller Novels

2. JULY THE TWENTY-NINTH-1

2. JULY THE TWENTY-NINTHIt was a sad time for Cytherea—the last day of Springrove's

management at Gradfield's, and the last evening before his return

from Budmouth to his father's house, previous to his departure for

London.

Graye had been requested by the architect to survey a plot of

land nearly twenty miles off, which, with the journey to and fro,

would occupy him the whole day, and prevent his returning till late

in the evening. Cytherea made a companion of her landlady to the

extent of sharing meals and sitting with her during the morning of

her brother's absence. Mid-day found her restless and miserable

under this arrangement. All the afternoon she sat alone, looking

out of the window for she scarcely knew whom, and hoping she

scarcely knew what. Half-past five o'clock came—the end of

Springrove's official day. Two minutes later Springrove walked

by.

She endured her solitude for another half-hour, and then could

endure no longer. She had hoped—while affecting to fear—that Edward

would have found some reason or other for calling, but it seemed

that he had not. Hastily dressing herself she went out, when the

farce of an accidental meeting was repeated. Edward came upon her

in the street at the first turning, and, like the Great Duke

Ferdinand in 'The Statue and the Bust'—

'He looked at her as a lover can;

She looked at him as one who awakes—

The past was a sleep, and her life began.'

'Shall we have a boat?' he said impulsively.

How blissful it all is at first. Perhaps, indeed, the only bliss

in the course of love which can truly be called Eden-like is that

which prevails immediately after doubt has ended and before

reflection has set in—at the dawn of the emotion, when it is not

recognized by name, and before the consideration of what this love

is, has given birth to the consideration of what difficulties it

tends to create; when on the man's part, the mistress appears to

the mind's eye in picturesque, hazy, and fresh morning lights, and

soft morning shadows; when, as yet, she is known only as the wearer

of one dress, which shares her own personality; as the stander in

one special position, the giver of one bright particular glance,

and the speaker of one tender sentence; when, on her part, she is

timidly careful over what she says and does, lest she should be

misconstrued or under-rated to the breadth of a shadow of a

hair.

'Shall we have a boat?' he said again, more softly, seeing that

to his first question she had not answered, but looked uncertainly

at the ground, then almost, but not quite, in his face, blushed a

series of minute blushes, left off in the midst of them, and showed

the usual signs of perplexity in a matter of the emotions.

Owen had always been with her before, but there was now a force

of habit in the proceeding, and with Arcadian innocence she assumed

that a row on the water was, under any circumstances, a natural

thing. Without another word being spoken on either side, they went

down the steps. He carefully handed her in, took his seat, slid

noiselessly off the sand, and away from the shore.

They thus sat facing each other in the graceful yellow

cockle-shell, and his eyes frequently found a resting-place in the

depths of hers. The boat was so small that at each return of the

sculls, when his hands came forward to begin the pull, they

approached so near to her that her vivid imagination began to

thrill her with a fancy that he was going to clasp his arms round

her. The sensation grew so strong that she could not run the risk

of again meeting his eyes at those critical moments, and turned

aside to inspect the distant horizon; then she grew weary of

looking sideways, and was driven to return to her natural position

again. At this instant he again leant forward to begin, and met her

glance by an ardent fixed gaze. An involuntary impulse of girlish

embarrassment caused her to give a vehement pull at the

tiller-rope, which brought the boat's head round till they stood

directly for shore.

His eyes, which had dwelt upon her form during the whole time of

her look askance, now left her; he perceived the direction in which

they were going.

'Why, you have completely turned the boat, Miss Graye?' he said,

looking over his shoulder. 'Look at our track on the water—a great

semicircle, preceded by a series of zigzags as far as we can

see.'

She looked attentively. 'Is it my fault or yours?' she inquired.

'Mine, I suppose?'

'I can't help saying that it is yours.'

She dropped the ropes decisively, feeling the slightest twinge

of vexation at the answer.

'Why do you let go?'

'I do it so badly.'

'O no; you turned about for shore in a masterly way. Do you wish

to return?'

'Yes, if you please.'

'Of course, then, I will at once.'

'I fear what the people will think of us—going in such absurd

directions, and all through my wretched steering.'

'Never mind what the people think.' A pause. 'You surely are not

so weak as to mind what the people think on such a matter as

that?'

Those words might almost be called too firm and hard to be given

by him to her; but never mind. For almost the first time in her

life she felt the charming sensation, although on such an

insignificant subject, of being compelled into an opinion by a man

she loved. Owen, though less yielding physically, and more

practical, would not have had the intellectual independence to

answer a woman thus. She replied quietly and honestly—as honestly

as when she had stated the contrary fact a minute earlier—

'I don't mind.'

'I'll unship the tiller that you may have nothing to do going

back but to hold your parasol,' he continued, and arose to perform

the operation, necessarily leaning closely against her, to guard

against the risk of capsizing the boat as he reached his hands

astern. His warm breath touched and crept round her face like a

caress; but he was apparently only concerned with his task. She

looked guilty of something when he seated himself. He read in her

face what that something was—she had experienced a pleasure from

his touch. But he flung a practical glance over his shoulder,

seized the oars, and they sped in a straight line towards the

shore.

Cytherea saw that he noted in her face what had passed in her

heart, and that noting it, he continued as decided as before. She

was inwardly distressed. She had not meant him to translate her

words about returning home so literally at the first; she had not

intended him to learn her secret; but more than all she was not

able to endure the perception of his learning it and continuing

unmoved.

There was nothing but misery to come now. They would step

ashore; he would say good-night, go to London to-morrow, and the

miserable She would lose him for ever. She did not quite suppose

what was the fact, that a parallel thought was simultaneously

passing through his mind.

They were now within ten yards, now within five; he was only now

waiting for a 'smooth' to bring the boat in. Sweet, sweet Love must

not be slain thus, was the fair maid's reasoning. She was equal to

the occasion—ladies are—and delivered the god—

'Do you want very much to land, Mr. Springrove?' she said,

letting her young violet eyes pine at him a very, very little.

'I? Not at all,' said he, looking an astonishment at her inquiry

which a slight twinkle of his eye half belied. 'But you do?'

'I think that now we have come out, and it is such a pleasant

evening,' she said gently and sweetly, 'I should like a little

longer row if you don't mind? I'll try to steer better than before

if it makes it easier for you. I'll try very hard.'

It was the turn of his face to tell a tale now. He looked, 'We

understand each other—ah, we do, darling!' turned the boat, and

pulled back into the Bay once more.

'Now steer wherever you will,' he said, in a low voice. 'Never

mind the directness of the course—wherever you will.'

'Shall it be Creston Shore?' she said, pointing to a stretch of

beach northward from Budmouth Esplanade.

'Creston Shore certainly,' he responded, grasping the sculls.

She took the strings daintily, and they wound away to the left.

For a long time nothing was audible in the boat but the regular

dip of the oars, and their movement in the rowlocks. Springrove at

length spoke.

'I must go away to-morrow,' he said tentatively.

'Yes,' she replied faintly.

'To endeavour to advance a little in my profession in

London.'

'Yes,' she said again, with the same preoccupied softness.

'But I shan't advance.'

'Why not? Architecture is a bewitching profession. They say that

an architect's work is another man's play.'

'Yes. But worldly advantage from an art doesn't depend upon

mastering it. I used to think it did; but it doesn't. Those who get

rich need have no skill at all as artists.'

'What need they have?'

'A certain kind of energy which men with any fondness for art

possess very seldom indeed—an earnestness in making acquaintances,

and a love for using them. They give their whole attention to the

art of dining out, after mastering a few rudimentary facts to serve

up in conversation. Now after saying that, do I seem a man likely

to make a name?'

'You seem a man likely to make a mistake.'

'What's that?'

'To give too much room to the latent feeling which is rather

common in these days among the unappreciated, that because some

remarkably successful men are fools, all remarkably unsuccessful

men are geniuses.'

'Pretty subtle for a young lady,' he said slowly. 'From that

remark I should fancy you had bought experience.'

She passed over the idea. 'Do try to succeed,' she said, with

wistful thoughtfulness, leaving her eyes on him.

Springrove flushed a little at the earnestness of her words, and

mused. 'Then, like Cato the Censor, I shall do what I despise, to

be in the fashion,' he said at last… 'Well, when I found all this

out that I was speaking of, what ever do you think I did? From

having already loved verse passionately, I went on to read it

continually; then I went rhyming myself. If anything on earth ruins

a man for useful occupation, and for content with reasonable

success in a profession or trade, it is the habit of writing verses

on emotional subjects, which had much better be left to die from

want of nourishment.'

'Do you write poems now?' she said.

'None. Poetical days are getting past with me, according to the

usual rule. Writing rhymes is a stage people of my sort pass

through, as they pass through the stage of shaving for a beard, or

thinking they are ill-used, or saying there's nothing in the world

worth living for.'

'Then the difference between a common man and a recognized poet

is, that one has been deluded, and cured of his delusion, and the

other continues deluded all his days.'

'Well, there's just enough truth in what you say, to make the

remark unbearable. However, it doesn't matter to me now that I

"meditate the thankless Muse" no longer, but… .' He paused, as if

endeavouring to think what better thing he did.

Cytherea's mind ran on to the succeeding lines of the poem, and

their startling harmony with the present situation suggested the

fancy that he was 'sporting' with her, and brought an awkward

contemplativeness to her face.

Springrove guessed her thoughts, and in answer to them simply

said 'Yes.' Then they were silent again.

'If I had known an Amaryllis was coming here, I should not have

made arrangements for leaving,' he resumed.

Such levity, superimposed on the notion of 'sport', was

intolerable to Cytherea; for a woman seems never to see any but the

serious side of her attachment, though the most devoted lover has

all the time a vague and dim perception that he is losing his old

dignity and frittering away his time.