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3. MIDNIGHT

3. MIDNIGHTThe clock struck twelve. The Aldclyffe state dinner was over.

The company had all gone, and Miss Aldclyffe's bell rang loudly and

jerkingly.

Cytherea started to her feet at the sound, which broke in upon a

fitful sleep that had overtaken her. She had been sitting drearily

in her chair waiting minute after minute for the signal, her brain

in that state of intentness which takes cognizance of the passage

of Time as a real motion—motion without matter—the instants

throbbing past in the company of a feverish pulse. She hastened to

the room, to find the lady sitting before the dressing shrine,

illuminated on both sides, and looking so queenly in her attitude

of absolute repose, that the younger woman felt the awfullest sense

of responsibility at her Vandalism in having undertaken to demolish

so imposing a pile.

The lady's jewelled ornaments were taken off in silence—some by

her own listless hands, some by Cytherea's. Then followed the outer

stratum of clothing. The dress being removed, Cytherea took it in

her hand and went with it into the bedroom adjoining, intending to

hang it in the wardrobe. But on second thoughts, in order that she

might not keep Miss Aldclyffe waiting a moment longer than

necessary, she flung it down on the first resting-place that came

to hand, which happened to be the bed, and re-entered the

dressing-room with the noiseless footfall of a kitten. She paused

in the middle of the room.

She was unnoticed, and her sudden return had plainly not been

expected. During the short time of Cytherea's absence, Miss

Aldclyffe had pulled off a kind of chemisette of Brussels net,

drawn high above the throat, which she had worn with her evening

dress as a semi-opaque covering to her shoulders, and in its place

had put her night-gown round her. Her right hand was lifted to her

neck, as if engaged in fastening her night-gown.

But on a second glance Miss Aldclyffe's proceeding was clearer

to Cytherea. She was not fastening her night-gown; it had been

carelessly thrown round her, and Miss Aldclyffe was really occupied

in holding up to her eyes some small object that she was keenly

scrutinizing. And now on suddenly discovering the presence of

Cytherea at the back of the apartment, instead of naturally

continuing or concluding her inspection, she desisted hurriedly;

the tiny snap of a spring was heard, her hand was removed, and she

began adjusting her robes.

Modesty might have directed her hasty action of enwrapping her

shoulders, but it was scarcely likely, considering Miss Aldclyffe's

temperament, that she had all her life been used to a maid,

Cytherea's youth, and the elder lady's marked treatment of her as

if she were a mere child or plaything. The matter was too slight to

reason about, and yet upon the whole it seemed that Miss Aldclyffe

must have a practical reason for concealing her neck.

With a timid sense of being an intruder Cytherea was about to

step back and out of the room; but at the same moment Miss

Aldclyffe turned, saw the impulse, and told her companion to stay,

looking into her eyes as if she had half an intention to explain

something. Cytherea felt certain it was the little mystery of her

late movements. The other withdrew her eyes; Cytherea went to fetch

the dressing-gown, and wheeled round again to bring it up to Miss

Aldclyffe, who had now partly removed her night-dress to put it on

the proper way, and still sat with her back towards Cytherea.

Her neck was again quite open and uncovered, and though hidden

from the direct line of Cytherea's vision, she saw it reflected in

the glass—the fair white surface, and the inimitable combination of

curves between throat and bosom which artists adore, being brightly

lit up by the light burning on either side.

And the lady's prior proceedings were now explained in the

simplest manner. In the midst of her breast, like an island in a

sea of pearl, reclined an exquisite little gold locket, embellished

with arabesque work of blue, red, and white enamel. That was

undoubtedly what Miss Aldclyffe had been contemplating; and,

moreover, not having been put off with her other ornaments, it was

to be retained during the night—a slight departure from the custom

of ladies which Miss Aldclyffe had at first not cared to exhibit to

her new assistant, though now, on further thought, she seemed to

have become indifferent on the matter.

'My dressing-gown,' she said, quietly fastening her night-dress

as she spoke.

Cytherea came forward with it. Miss Aldclyffe did not turn her

head, but looked inquiringly at her maid in the glass.

'You saw what I wear on my neck, I suppose?' she said to

Cytherea's reflected face.

'Yes, madam, I did,' said Cytherea to Miss Aldclyffe's reflected

face.

Miss Aldclyffe again looked at Cytherea's reflection as if she

were on the point of explaining. Again she checked her resolve, and

said lightly—

'Few of my maids discover that I wear it always. I generally

keep it a secret—not that it matters much. But I was careless with

you, and seemed to want to tell you. You win me to make confidences

that… .'

She ceased, took Cytherea's hand in her own, lifted the locket

with the other, touched the spring and disclosed a miniature.

'It is a handsome face, is it not?' she whispered mournfully,

and even timidly.

'It is.'

But the sight had gone through Cytherea like an electric shock,

and there was an instantaneous awakening of perception in her, so

thrilling in its presence as to be well-nigh insupportable. The

face in the miniature was the face of her own father—younger and

fresher than she had ever known him—but her father!

Was this the woman of his wild and unquenchable early love? And

was this the woman who had figured in the gate-man's story as

answering the name of Cytherea before her judgment was awake?

Surely it was. And if so, here was the tangible outcrop of a

romantic and hidden stratum of the past hitherto seen only in her

imagination; but as far as her scope allowed, clearly defined

therein by reason of its strangeness.

Miss Aldclyffe's eyes and thoughts were so intent upon the

miniature that she had not been conscious of Cytherea's start of

surprise. She went on speaking in a low and abstracted tone.

'Yes, I lost him.' She interrupted her words by a short

meditation, and went on again. 'I lost him by excess of honesty as

regarded my past. But it was best that it should be so… . I was led

to think rather more than usual of the circumstances to-night

because of your name. It is pronounced the same way, though

differently spelt.'

The only means by which Cytherea's surname could have been spelt

to Miss Aldclyffe must have been by Mrs. Morris or Farmer

Springrove. She fancied Farmer Springrove would have spelt it

properly if Edward was his informant, which made Miss Aldclyffe's

remark obscure.

Women make confidences and then regret them. The impulsive rush

of feeling which had led Miss Aldclyffe to indulge in this

revelation, trifling as it was, died out immediately her words were

beyond recall; and the turmoil, occasioned in her by dwelling upon

that chapter of her life, found vent in another kind of emotion—the

result of a trivial accident.

Cytherea, after letting down Miss Aldclyffe's hair, adopted some

plan with it to which the lady had not been accustomed. A rapid

revulsion to irritation ensued. The maiden's mere touch seemed to

discharge the pent-up regret of the lady as if she had been a jar

of electricity.

'How strangely you treat my hair!' she exclaimed.

A silence.

'I have told you what I never tell my maids as a rule; of

course nothing that I say in this room is to be

mentioned outside it.' She spoke crossly no less than

emphatically.

'It shall not be, madam,' said Cytherea, agitated and vexed that

the woman of her romantic wonderings should be so disagreeable to

her.

'Why on earth did I tell you of my past?' she went on.

Cytherea made no answer.

The lady's vexation with herself, and the accident which had led

to the disclosure swelled little by little till it knew no bounds.

But what was done could not be undone, and though Cytherea had

shown a most winning responsiveness, quarrel Miss Aldclyffe must.

She recurred to the subject of Cytherea's want of expertness, like

a bitter reviewer, who finding the sentiments of a poet

unimpeachable, quarrels with his rhymes.

'Never, never before did I serve myself such a trick as this in

engaging a maid!' She waited for an expostulation: none came. Miss

Aldclyffe tried again.

'The idea of my taking a girl without asking her more than three

questions, or having a single reference, all because of her good

l—, the shape of her face and body! It was a

fool's trick. There, I am served right, quite right—by being

deceived in such a way.'

'I didn't deceive you,' said Cytherea. The speech was an

unfortunate one, and was the very 'fuel to maintain its fires' that

the other's petulance desired.

'You did,' she said hotly.

'I told you I couldn't promise to be acquainted with every

detail of routine just at first.'

'Will you contradict me in this way! You are telling untruths, I

say.'

Cytherea's lip quivered. 'I would answer the remark if—if—'

'If what?'

'If it were a lady's!'

'You girl of impudence—what do you say? Leave the room this

instant, I tell you.'

'And I tell you that a person who speaks to a lady as you do to

me, is no lady herself!'

'To a lady? A lady's-maid speaks in this way. The idea!'

'Don't "lady's-maid" me: nobody is my mistress I won't have

it!'

'Good Heavens!'

'I wouldn't have come—no—I wouldn't! if I had known!'

'What?'

'That you were such an ill-tempered, unjust woman!'

'Possest beyond the Muse's painting,' Miss Aldclyffe

exclaimed—

'A Woman, am I! I'll teach you if I am a Woman!' and lifted her

hand as if she would have liked to strike her companion. This stung

the maiden into absolute defiance.

'I dare you to touch me!' she cried. 'Strike me if you dare,

madam! I am not afraid of you—what do you mean by such an action as

that?'

Miss Aldclyffe was disconcerted at this unexpected show of

spirit, and ashamed of her unladylike impulse now it was put into

words. She sank back in the chair. 'I was not going to strike

you—go to your room—I beg you to go to your room!' she repeated in

a husky whisper.

Cytherea, red and panting, took up her candlestick and advanced

to the table to get a light. As she stood close to them the rays

from the candles struck sharply on her face. She usually bore a

much stronger likeness to her mother than to her father, but now,

looking with a grave, reckless, and angered expression of

countenance at the kindling wick as she held it slanting into the

other flame, her father's features were distinct in her. It was the

first time Miss Aldclyffe had seen her in a passionate mood, and

wearing that expression which was invariably its concomitant. It

was Miss Aldclyffe's turn to start now; and the remark she made was

an instance of that sudden change of tone from high-flown invective

to the pettiness of curiosity which so often makes women's quarrels

ridiculous. Even Miss Aldclyffe's dignity had not sufficient power

to postpone the absorbing desire she now felt to settle the strange

suspicion that had entered her head.

'You spell your name the common way, G, R, E, Y, don't you?' she

said, with assumed indifference.

'No,' said Cytherea, poised on the side of her foot, and still

looking into the flame.

'Yes, surely? The name was spelt that way on your boxes: I

looked and saw it myself.'

The enigma of Miss Aldclyffe's mistake was solved. 'O, was it?'

said Cytherea. 'Ah, I remember Mrs. Jackson, the lodging-house

keeper at Budmouth, labelled them. We spell our name G, R, A, Y,

E.'

'What was your father's trade?'

Cytherea thought it would be useless to attempt to conceal facts

any longer. 'His was not a trade,' she said. 'He was an

architect.'

'The idea of your being an architect's daughter!'

'There's nothing to offend you in that, I hope?'

'O no.'

'Why did you say "the idea"?'

'Leave that alone. Did he ever visit in Gower Street,

Bloomsbury, one Christmas, many years ago?—but you would not know

that.'

'I have heard him say that Mr. Huntway, a curate somewhere in

that part of London, and who died there, was an old college friend

of his.'

'What is your Christian name?'

'Cytherea.'

'No! And is it really? And you knew that face I showed you? Yes,

I see you did.' Miss Aldclyffe stopped, and closed her lips

impassibly. She was a little agitated.

'Do you want me any longer?' said Cytherea, standing candle in

hand and looking quietly in Miss Aldclyffe's face.

'Well—no: no longer,' said the other lingeringly.

'With your permission, I will leave the house to morrow morning,

madam.'

'Ah.' Miss Aldclyffe had no notion of what she was saying.

'And I know you will be so good as not to intrude upon me during

the short remainder of my stay?'

Saying this Cytherea left the room before her companion had

answered. Miss Aldclyffe, then, had recognized her at last, and had

been curious about her name from the beginning.

The other members of the household had retired to rest. As

Cytherea went along the passage leading to her room her skirts

rustled against the partition. A door on her left opened, and Mrs.

Morris looked out.

'I waited out of bed till you came up,' she said, 'it being your

first night, in case you should be at a loss for anything. How have

you got on with Miss Aldclyffe?'

'Pretty well—though not so well as I could have wished.'

'Has she been scolding?'

'A little.'

'She's a very odd lady—'tis all one way or the other with her.

She's not bad at heart, but unbearable in close quarters. Those of

us who don't have much to do with her personally, stay on for years

and years.'

'Has Miss Aldclyffe's family always been rich?' said

Cytherea.

'O no. The property, with the name, came from her mother's

uncle. Her family is a branch of the old Aldclyffe family on the

maternal side. Her mother married a Bradleigh—a mere nobody at that

time—and was on that account cut by her relations. But very

singularly the other branch of the family died out one by one—three

of them, and Miss Aldclyffe's great-uncle then left all his

property, including this estate, to Captain Bradleigh and his

wife—Miss Aldclyffe's father and mother—on condition that they took

the old family name as well. There's all about it in the "Landed

Gentry." 'Tis a thing very often done.'

'O, I see. Thank you. Well, now I am going. Good-night.'

Chapter 6

THE EVENTS OF TWELVE HOURS