20 Must-Read Thriller Novels

1. AUGUST THE EIGHTH. MORNING AND AFTERNOON

1. AUGUST THE EIGHTH. MORNING AND

AFTERNOONAt post-time on that following Monday morning, Cytherea watched

so anxiously for the postman, that as the time which must bring him

narrowed less and less her vivid expectation had only a degree less

tangibility than his presence itself. In another second his form

came into view. He brought two letters for Cytherea.

One from Miss Aldclyffe, simply stating that she wished Cytherea

to come on trial: that she would require her to be at Knapwater

House by Monday evening.

The other was from Edward Springrove. He told her that she was

the bright spot of his life: that her existence was far dearer to

him than his own: that he had never known what it was to love till

he had met her. True, he had felt passing attachments to other

faces from time to time; but they all had been weak inclinations

towards those faces as they then appeared. He loved her past and

future, as well as her present. He pictured her as a child: he

loved her. He pictured her of sage years: he loved her. He pictured

her in trouble; he loved her. Homely friendship entered into his

love for her, without which all love was evanescent.

He would make one depressing statement. Uncontrollable

circumstances (a long history, with which it was impossible to

acquaint her at present) operated to a certain extent as a drag

upon his wishes. He had felt this more strongly at the time of

their parting than he did now—and it was the cause of his abrupt

behaviour, for which he begged her to forgive him. He saw now an

honourable way of freeing himself, and the perception had prompted

him to write. In the meantime might he indulge in the hope of

possessing her on some bright future day, when by hard labour

generated from her own encouraging words, he had placed himself in

a position she would think worthy to be shared with him?

Dear little letter; she huddled it up. So much more important a

love-letter seems to a girl than to a man. Springrove was

unconsciously clever in his letters, and a man with a talent of

that kind may write himself up to a hero in the mind of a young

woman who loves him without knowing much about him. Springrove

already stood a cubit higher in her imagination than he did in his

shoes.

During the day she flitted about the room in an ecstasy of

pleasure, packing the things and thinking of an answer which should

be worthy of the tender tone of the question, her love bubbling

from her involuntarily, like prophesyings from a prophet.

In the afternoon Owen went with her to the railway-station, and

put her in the train for Carriford Road, the station nearest to

Knapwater House.

Half-an-hour later she stepped out upon the platform, and found

nobody there to receive her—though a pony-carriage was waiting

outside. In two minutes she saw a melancholy man in cheerful livery

running towards her from a public-house close adjoining, who proved

to be the servant sent to fetch her. There are two ways of getting

rid of sorrows: one by living them down, the other by drowning

them. The coachman drowned his.

He informed her that her luggage would be fetched by a

spring-waggon in about half-an-hour; then helped her into the

chaise and drove off.

Her lover's letter, lying close against her neck, fortified her

against the restless timidity she had previously felt concerning

this new undertaking, and completely furnished her with the

confident ease of mind which is required for the critical

observation of surrounding objects. It was just that stage in the

slow decline of the summer days, when the deep, dark, and vacuous

hot-weather shadows are beginning to be replaced by blue ones that

have a surface and substance to the eye. They trotted along the

turnpike road for a distance of about a mile, which brought them

just outside the village of Carriford, and then turned through

large lodge-gates, on the heavy stone piers of which stood a pair

of bitterns cast in bronze. They then entered the park and wound

along a drive shaded by old and drooping lime-trees, not arranged

in the form of an avenue, but standing irregularly, sometimes

leaving the track completely exposed to the sky, at other times

casting a shade over it, which almost approached gloom—the under

surface of the lowest boughs hanging at a uniform level of six feet

above the grass—the extreme height to which the nibbling mouths of

the cattle could reach.

'Is that the house?' said Cytherea expectantly, catching sight

of a grey gable between the trees, and losing it again.

'No; that's the old manor-house—or rather all that's left of it.

The Aldycliffes used to let it sometimes, but it was oftener empty.

'Tis now divided into three cottages. Respectable people didn't

care to live there.'

'Why didn't they?'

'Well, 'tis so awkward and unhandy. You see so much of it has

been pulled down, and the rooms that are left won't do very well

for a small residence. 'Tis so dismal, too, and like most old

houses stands too low down in the hollow to be healthy.'

'Do they tell any horrid stories about it?'

'No, not a single one.'

'Ah, that's a pity.'

'Yes, that's what I say. 'Tis jest the house for a nice ghastly

hair-on-end story, that would make the parish religious. Perhaps it

will have one some day to make it complete; but there's not a word

of the kind now. There, I wouldn't live there for all that. In

fact, I couldn't. O no, I couldn't.'

'Why couldn't you?'

'The sounds.'

'What are they?'

'One is the waterfall, which stands so close by that you can

hear that there waterfall in every room of the house, night or day,

ill or well. 'Tis enough to drive anybody mad: now hark.'

He stopped the horse. Above the slight common sounds in the air

came the unvarying steady rush of falling water from some spot

unseen on account of the thick foliage of the grove.

'There's something awful in the timing o' that sound, ain't

there, miss?'

'When you say there is, there really seems to be. You said there

were two—what is the other horrid sound?'

'The pumping-engine. That's close by the Old House, and sends

water up the hill and all over the Great House. We shall hear that

directly… . There, now hark again.'

From the same direction down the dell they could now hear the

whistling creak of cranks, repeated at intervals of half-a-minute,

with a sousing noise between each: a creak, a souse, then another

creak, and so on continually.

'Now if anybody could make shift to live through the other

sounds, these would finish him off, don't you think so, miss? That

machine goes on night and day, summer and winter, and is hardly

ever greased or visited. Ah, it tries the nerves at night,

especially if you are not very well; though we don't often hear it

at the Great House.'

'That sound is certainly very dismal. They might have the wheel

greased. Does Miss Aldclyffe take any interest in these

things?'

'Well, scarcely; you see her father doesn't attend to that sort

of thing as he used to. The engine was once quite his hobby. But

now he's getten old and very seldom goes there.'

'How many are there in family?'

'Only her father and herself. He's a' old man of seventy.'

'I had thought that Miss Aldclyffe was sole mistress of the

property, and lived here alone.'

'No, m—' The coachman was continually checking himself thus,

being about to style her miss involuntarily, and then recollecting

that he was only speaking to the new lady's-maid.

'She will soon be mistress, however, I am afraid,' he continued,

as if speaking by a spirit of prophecy denied to ordinary humanity.

'The poor old gentleman has decayed very fast lately.' The man then

drew a long breath.

'Why did you breathe sadly like that?' said Cytherea.

'Ah!… When he's dead peace will be all over with us old

servants. I expect to see the old house turned inside out.'

'She will marry, do you mean?'

'Marry—not she! I wish she would. No, in her soul she's as

solitary as Robinson Crusoe, though she has acquaintances in

plenty, if not relations. There's the rector, Mr. Raunham—he's a

relation by marriage—yet she's quite distant towards him. And

people say that if she keeps single there will be hardly a life

between Mr. Raunham and the heirship of the estate. Dang it, she

don't care. She's an extraordinary picture of womankind—very

extraordinary.'

'In what way besides?'

'You'll know soon enough, miss. She has had seven lady's-maids

this last twelvemonth. I assure you 'tis one body's work to fetch

'em from the station and take 'em back again. The Lord must be a

neglectful party at heart, or he'd never permit such overbearen

goings on!'

'Does she dismiss them directly they come!'

'Not at all—she never dismisses them—they go theirselves. Ye see

'tis like this. She's got a very quick temper; she flees in a

passion with them for nothing at all; next mornen they come up and

say they are going; she's sorry for it and wishes they'd stay, but

she's as proud as a lucifer, and her pride won't let her say,

"Stay," and away they go. 'Tis like this in fact. If you say to her

about anybody, "Ah, poor thing!" she says, "Pooh! indeed!" If you

say, "Pooh, indeed!" "Ah, poor thing!" she says directly. She hangs

the chief baker, as mid be, and restores the chief butler, as mid

be, though the devil but Pharaoh herself can see the difference

between 'em.'

Cytherea was silent. She feared she might be again a burden to

her brother.

'However, you stand a very good chance,' the man went on, 'for I

think she likes you more than common. I have never known her send

the pony-carriage to meet one before; 'tis always the trap, but

this time she said, in a very particular ladylike tone, "Roobert,

gaow with the pony-kerriage."… There, 'tis true, pony and carriage

too are getten rather shabby now,' he added, looking round upon the

vehicle as if to keep Cytherea's pride within reasonable

limits.

''Tis to be hoped you'll please in dressen her to-night.'

'Why to-night?'

'There's a dinner-party of seventeen; 'tis her father's

birthday, and she's very particular about her looks at such times.

Now see; this is the house. Livelier up here, isn't it, miss?'

They were now on rising ground, and had just emerged from a

clump of trees. Still a little higher than where they stood was

situated the mansion, called Knapwater House, the offices gradually

losing themselves among the trees behind.