20 Must-Read Thriller Novels

2. EVENING

2. EVENINGThe house was regularly and substantially built of clean grey

freestone throughout, in that plainer fashion of Greek classicism

which prevailed at the latter end of the last century, when the

copyists called designers had grown weary of fantastic variations

in the Roman orders. The main block approximated to a square on the

ground plan, having a projection in the centre of each side,

surmounted by a pediment. From each angle of the inferior side ran

a line of buildings lower than the rest, turning inwards again at

their further end, and forming within them a spacious open court,

within which resounded an echo of astonishing clearness. These

erections were in their turn backed by ivy-covered ice-houses,

laundries, and stables, the whole mass of subsidiary buildings

being half buried beneath close-set shrubs and trees.

There was opening sufficient through the foliage on the right

hand to enable her on nearer approach to form an idea of the

arrangement of the remoter or lawn front also. The natural features

and contour of this quarter of the site had evidently dictated the

position of the house primarily, and were of the ordinary, and upon

the whole, most satisfactory kind, namely, a broad, graceful slope

running from the terrace beneath the walls to the margin of a

placid lake lying below, upon the surface of which a dozen swans

and a green punt floated at leisure. An irregular wooded island

stood in the midst of the lake; beyond this and the further margin

of the water were plantations and greensward of varied outlines,

the trees heightening, by half veiling, the softness of the

exquisite landscape stretching behind.

The glimpses she had obtained of this portion were now checked

by the angle of the building. In a minute or two they reached the

side door, at which Cytherea alighted. She was welcomed by an

elderly woman of lengthy smiles and general pleasantness, who

announced herself to be Mrs. Morris, the housekeeper.

'Mrs. Graye, I believe?' she said.

'I am not—O yes, yes, we are all mistresses,' said Cytherea,

smiling, but forcedly. The title accorded her seemed disagreeably

like the first slight scar of a brand, and she thought of Owen's

prophecy.

Mrs. Morris led her into a comfortable parlour called The Room.

Here tea was made ready, and Cytherea sat down, looking, whenever

occasion allowed, at Mrs. Morris with great interest and curiosity,

to discover, if possible, something in her which should give a clue

to the secret of her knowledge of herself, and the recommendation

based upon it. But nothing was to be learnt, at any rate just then.

Mrs. Morris was perpetually getting up, feeling in her pockets,

going to cupboards, leaving the room two or three minutes, and

trotting back again.

'You'll excuse me, Mrs. Graye,' she said, 'but 'tis the old

gentleman's birthday, and they always have a lot of people to

dinner on that day, though he's getting up in years now. However,

none of them are sleepers—she generally keeps the house pretty

clear of lodgers (being a lady with no intimate friends, though

many acquaintances), which, though it gives us less to do, makes it

all the duller for the younger maids in the house.' Mrs. Morris

then proceeded to give in fragmentary speeches an outline of the

constitution and government of the estate.

'Now, are you sure you have quite done tea? Not a bit or drop

more? Why, you've eaten nothing, I'm sure… . Well, now, it is

rather inconvenient that the other maid is not here to show you the

ways of the house a little, but she left last Saturday, and Miss

Aldclyffe has been making shift with poor old clumsy me for a maid

all yesterday and this morning. She is not come in yet. I expect

she will ask for you, Mrs. Graye, the first thing… . I was going to

say that if you have really done tea, I will take you upstairs, and

show you through the wardrobes—Miss Aldclyffe's things are not laid

out for to-night yet.'

She preceded Cytherea upstairs, pointed out her own room, and

then took her into Miss Aldclyffe's dressing-room, on the

first-floor; where, after explaining the whereabouts of various

articles of apparel, the housekeeper left her, telling her that she

had an hour yet upon her hands before dressing-time. Cytherea laid

out upon the bed in the next room all that she had been told would

be required that evening, and then went again to the little room

which had been appropriated to herself.

Here she sat down by the open window, leant out upon the sill

like another Blessed Damozel, and listlessly looked down upon the

brilliant pattern of colours formed by the flower-beds on the

lawn—now richly crowded with late summer blossom. But the vivacity

of spirit which had hitherto enlivened her, was fast ebbing under

the pressure of prosaic realities, and the warm scarlet of the

geraniums, glowing most conspicuously, and mingling with the vivid

cold red and green of the verbenas, the rich depth of the dahlia,

and the ripe mellowness of the calceolaria, backed by the pale hue

of a flock of meek sheep feeding in the open park, close to the

other side of the fence, were, to a great extent, lost upon her

eyes. She was thinking that nothing seemed worth while; that it was

possible she might die in a workhouse; and what did it matter? The

petty, vulgar details of servitude that she had just passed

through, her dependence upon the whims of a strange woman, the

necessity of quenching all individuality of character in herself,

and relinquishing her own peculiar tastes to help on the wheel of

this alien establishment, made her sick and sad, and she almost

longed to pursue some free, out-of-doors employment, sleep under

trees or a hut, and know no enemy but winter and cold weather, like

shepherds and cowkeepers, and birds and animals—ay, like the sheep

she saw there under her window. She looked sympathizingly at them

for several minutes, imagining their enjoyment of the rich

grass.

'Yes—like those sheep,' she said aloud; and her face reddened

with surprise at a discovery she made that very instant.

The flock consisted of some ninety or a hundred young stock

ewes: the surface of their fleece was as rounded and even as a

cushion, and white as milk. Now she had just observed that on the

left buttock of every one of them were marked in distinct red

letters the initials 'E. S.'

'E. S.' could bring to Cytherea's mind only one thought; but

that immediately and for ever—the name of her lover, Edward

Springrove.

'O, if it should be—!' She interrupted her words by a resolve.

Miss Aldclyffe's carriage at the same moment made its appearance in

the drive; but Miss Aldclyffe was not her object now. It was to

ascertain to whom the sheep belonged, and to set her surmise at

rest one way or the other. She flew downstairs to Mrs. Morris.

'Whose sheep are those in the park, Mrs. Morris?'

'Farmer Springrove's.'

'What Farmer Springrove is that?' she said quickly.

'Why, surely you know? Your friend, Farmer Springrove, the

cider-maker, and who keeps the Three Tranters Inn; who recommended

you to me when he came in to see me the other day?'

Cytherea's mother-wit suddenly warned her in the midst of her

excitement that it was necessary not to betray the secret of her

love. 'O yes,' she said, 'of course.' Her thoughts had run as

follows in that short interval:—

'Farmer Springrove is Edward's father, and his name is Edward

too.

'Edward knew I was going to advertise for a situation of some

kind.

'He watched the Times, and saw it, my address being

attached.

'He thought it would be excellent for me to be here that we

might meet whenever he came home.

'He told his father that I might be recommended as a

lady's-maid; and he knew my brother and myself.

'His father told Mrs. Morris; Mrs. Morris told Miss

Aldclyffe.'

The whole chain of incidents that drew her there was plain, and

there was no such thing as chance in the matter. It was all

Edward's doing.

The sound of a bell was heard. Cytherea did not heed it, and

still continued in her reverie.

'That's Miss Aldclyffe's bell,' said Mrs. Morris.

'I suppose it is,' said the young woman placidly.

'Well, it means that you must go up to her,' the matron

continued, in a tone of surprise.

Cytherea felt a burning heat come over her, mingled with a

sudden irritation at Mrs. Morris's hint. But the good sense which

had recognized stern necessity prevailed over rebellious

independence; the flush passed, and she said hastily—

'Yes, yes; of course, I must go to her when she pulls the

bell—whether I want to or no.'

However, in spite of this painful reminder of her new position

in life, Cytherea left the apartment in a mood far different from

the gloomy sadness of ten minutes previous. The place felt like

home to her now; she did not mind the pettiness of her occupation,

because Edward evidently did not mind it; and this was Edward's own

spot. She found time on her way to Miss Aldclyffe's dressing-room

to hurriedly glide out by a side door, and look for a moment at the

unconscious sheep bearing the friendly initials. She went up to

them to try to touch one of the flock, and felt vexed that they all

stared sceptically at her kind advances, and then ran pell-mell

down the hill. Then, fearing any one should discover her childish

movements, she slipped indoors again, and ascended the staircase,

catching glimpses, as she passed, of silver-buttoned footmen, who

flashed about the passages like lightning.

Miss Aldclyffe's dressing-room was an apartment which, on a

casual survey, conveyed an impression that it was available for

almost any purpose save the adornment of the feminine person. In

its hours of perfect order nothing pertaining to the toilet was

visible; even the inevitable mirrors with their accessories were

arranged in a roomy recess not noticeable from the door, lighted by

a window of its own, called the dressing-window.

The washing-stand figured as a vast oak chest, carved with

grotesque Renaissance ornament. The dressing table was in

appearance something between a high altar and a cabinet piano, the

surface being richly worked in the same style of semi-classic

decoration, but the extraordinary outline having been arrived at by

an ingenious joiner and decorator from the neighbouring town, after

months of painful toil in cutting and fitting, under Miss

Aldclyffe's immediate eye; the materials being the remains of two

or three old cabinets the lady had found in the lumber-room. About

two-thirds of the floor was carpeted, the remaining portion being

laid with parquetry of light and dark woods.

Miss Aldclyffe was standing at the larger window, away from the

dressing-niche. She bowed, and said pleasantly, 'I am glad you have

come. We shall get on capitally, I dare say.'

Her bonnet was off. Cytherea did not think her so handsome as on

the earlier day; the queenliness of her beauty was harder and less

warm. But a worse discovery than this was that Miss Aldclyffe, with

the usual obliviousness of rich people to their dependents'

specialities, seemed to have quite forgotten Cytherea's

inexperience, and mechanically delivered up her body to her

handmaid without a thought of details, and with a mild yawn.

Everything went well at first. The dress was removed, stockings

and black boots were taken off, and silk stockings and white shoes

were put on. Miss Aldclyffe then retired to bathe her hands and

face, and Cytherea drew breath. If she could get through this first

evening, all would be right. She felt that it was unfortunate that

such a crucial test for her powers as a birthday dinner should have

been applied on the threshold of her arrival; but set to again.

Miss Aldclyffe was now arrayed in a white dressing-gown, and

dropped languidly into an easy-chair, pushed up before the glass.

The instincts of her s*x and her own practice told Cytherea the

next movement. She let Miss Aldclyffe's hair fall about her

shoulders, and began to arrange it. It proved to be all real; a

satisfaction.

Miss Aldclyffe was musingly looking on the floor, and the

operation went on for some minutes in silence. At length her

thoughts seemed to turn to the present, and she lifted her eyes to

the glass.

'Why, what on earth are you doing with my head?' she exclaimed,

with widely opened eyes. At the words she felt the back of

Cytherea's little hand tremble against her neck.

'Perhaps you prefer it done the other fashion, madam?' said the

maiden.

'No, no; that's the fashion right enough, but you must make more

show of my hair than that, or I shall have to buy some, which God

forbid!'

'It is how I do my own,' said Cytherea naively, and with a

sweetness of tone that would have pleased the most acrimonious

under favourable circumstances; but tyranny was in the ascendant

with Miss Aldclyffe at this moment, and she was assured of

palatable food for her vice by having felt the trembling of

Cytherea's hand.

'Yours, indeed! Your hair! Come, go on.'

Considering that Cytherea possessed at least five times as much of

that valuable auxiliary to woman's beauty as the lady before her,

there was at the same time some excuse for Miss Aldclyffe's

outburst. She remembered herself, however, and said more quietly,

'Now then, Graye—By-the-bye, what do they call you downstairs?'

'Mrs. Graye,' said the handmaid.

'Then tell them not to do any such absurd thing—not but that it

is quite according to usage; but you are too young yet.'

This dialogue tided Cytherea safely onward through the

hairdressing till the flowers and diamonds were to be placed upon

the lady's brow. Cytherea began arranging them tastefully, and to

the very best of her judgment.

'That won't do,' said Miss Aldclyffe harshly.

'Why?'

'I look too young—an old dressed doll.'

'Will that, madam?'

'No, I look a fright—a perfect fright!'

'This way, perhaps?'

'Heavens! Don't worry me so.' She shut her lips like a trap.

Having once worked herself up to the belief that her head-dress

was to be a failure that evening, no cleverness of Cytherea's in

arranging it could please her. She continued in a smouldering

passion during the remainder of the performance, keeping her lips

firmly closed, and the muscles of her body rigid. Finally,

snatching up her gloves, and taking her handkerchief and fan in her

hand, she silently sailed out of the room, without betraying the

least consciousness of another woman's presence behind her.

Cytherea's fears that at the undressing this suppressed anger

would find a vent, kept her on thorns throughout the evening. She

tried to read; she could not. She tried to sew; she could not. She

tried to muse; she could not do that connectedly. 'If this is the

beginning, what will the end be!' she said in a whisper, and felt

many misgivings as to the policy of being overhasty in establishing

an independence at the expense of congruity with a cherished

past.