20 Must-Read Thriller Novels

1. AUGUST THE NINTH. ONE TO TWO O'CLOCK A.M.

1. AUGUST THE NINTH. ONE TO TWO O'CLOCK

A.M.Cytherea entered her bedroom, and flung herself on the bed,

bewildered by a whirl of thought. Only one subject was clear in her

mind, and it was that, in spite of family discoveries, that day was

to be the first and last of her experience as a lady's-maid.

Starvation itself should not compel her to hold such a humiliating

post for another instant. 'Ah,' she thought, with a sigh, at the

martyrdom of her last little fragment of self-conceit, 'Owen knows

everything better than I.'

She jumped up and began making ready for her departure in the

morning, the tears streaming down when she grieved and wondered

what practical matter on earth she could turn her hand to next. All

these preparations completed, she began to undress, her mind

unconsciously drifting away to the contemplation of her late

surprises. To look in the glass for an instant at the reflection of

her own magnificent resources in face and bosom, and to mark their

attractiveness unadorned, was perhaps but the natural action of a

young woman who had so lately been chidden whilst passing through

the harassing experience of decorating an older beauty of Miss

Aldclyffe's temper.

But she directly checked her weakness by sympathizing

reflections on the hidden troubles which must have thronged the

past years of the solitary lady, to keep her, though so rich and

courted, in a mood so repellent and gloomy as that in which

Cytherea found her; and then the young girl marvelled again and

again, as she had marvelled before, at the strange confluence of

circumstances which had brought herself into contact with the one

woman in the world whose history was so romantically intertwined

with her own. She almost began to wish she were not obliged to go

away and leave the lonely being to loneliness still.

In bed and in the dark, Miss Aldclyffe haunted her mind more

persistently than ever. Instead of sleeping, she called up staring

visions of the possible past of this queenly lady, her mother's

rival. Up the long vista of bygone years she saw, behind all, the

young girl's flirtation, little or much, with the cousin, that

seemed to have been nipped in the bud, or to have terminated

hastily in some way. Then the secret meetings between Miss

Aldclyffe and the other woman at the little inn at Hammersmith and

other places: the commonplace name she adopted: her swoon at some

painful news, and the very slight knowledge the elder female had of

her partner in mystery. Then, more than a year afterwards, the

acquaintanceship of her own father with this his first love; the

awakening of the passion, his acts of devotion, the unreasoning

heat of his rapture, her tacit acceptance of it, and yet her

uneasiness under the delight. Then his declaration amid the

evergreens: the utter change produced in her manner thereby,

seemingly the result of a rigid determination: and the total

concealment of her reason by herself and her parents, whatever it

was. Then the lady's course dropped into darkness, and nothing more

was visible till she was discovered here at Knapwater, nearly fifty

years old, still unmarried and still beautiful, but lonely,

embittered, and haughty. Cytherea imagined that her father's image

was still warmly cherished in Miss Aldclyffe's heart, and was

thankful that she herself had not been betrayed into announcing

that she knew many particulars of this page of her father's

history, and the chief one, the lady's unaccountable renunciation

of him. It would have made her bearing towards the mistress of the

mansion more awkward, and would have been no benefit to either.

Thus conjuring up the past, and theorizing on the present, she

lay restless, changing her posture from one side to the other and

back again. Finally, when courting sleep with all her art, she

heard a clock strike two. A minute later, and she fancied she could

distinguish a soft rustle in the passage outside her room.

To bury her head in the sheets was her first impulse; then to

uncover it, raise herself on her elbow, and stretch her eyes wide

open in the darkness; her lips being parted with the intentness of

her listening. Whatever the noise was, it had ceased for the

time.

It began again and came close to her door, lightly touching the

panels. Then there was another stillness; Cytherea made a movement

which caused a faint rustling of the bed-clothes.

Before she had time to think another thought a light tap was

given. Cytherea breathed: the person outside was evidently bent

upon finding her awake, and the rustle she had made had encouraged

the hope. The maiden's physical condition shifted from one pole to

its opposite. The cold sweat of terror forsook her, and modesty

took the alarm. She became hot and red; her door was not

locked.

A distinct woman's whisper came to her through the keyhole:

'Cytherea!'

Only one being in the house knew her Christian name, and that

was Miss Aldclyffe. Cytherea stepped out of bed, went to the door,

and whispered back, 'Yes?'

'Let me come in, darling.'

The young woman paused in a conflict between judgment and

emotion. It was now mistress and maid no longer; woman and woman

only. Yes; she must let her come in, poor thing.

She got a light in an instant, opened the door, and raising her

eyes and the candle, saw Miss Aldclyffe standing outside in her

dressing-gown.

'Now you see that it is really myself; put out the light,' said

the visitor. 'I want to stay here with you, Cythie. I came to ask

you to come down into my bed, but it is snugger here. But remember

that you are mistress in this room, and that I have no business

here, and that you may send me away if you choose. Shall I go?'

'O no; you shan't indeed if you don't want to,' said Cythie

generously.

The instant they were in bed Miss Aldclyffe freed herself from

the last remnant of restraint. She flung her arms round the young

girl, and pressed her gently to her heart.

'Now kiss me,' she said.

Cytherea, upon the whole, was rather discomposed at this change

of treatment; and, discomposed or no, her passions were not so

impetuous as Miss Aldclyffe's. She could not bring her soul to her

lips for a moment, try how she would.

'Come, kiss me,' repeated Miss Aldclyffe.

Cytherea gave her a very small one, as soft in touch and in

sound as the bursting of a bubble.

'More earnestly than that—come.'

She gave another, a little but not much more expressively.

'I don't deserve a more feeling one, I suppose,' said Miss

Aldclyffe, with an emphasis of sad bitterness in her tone. 'I am an

ill-tempered woman, you think; half out of my mind. Well, perhaps I

am; but I have had grief more than you can think or dream of. But I

can't help loving you—your name is the same as mine—isn't it

strange?'

Cytherea was inclined to say no, but remained silent.

'Now, don't you think I must love you?' continued the other.

'Yes,' said Cytherea absently. She was still thinking whether

duty to Owen and her father, which asked for silence on her

knowledge of her father's unfortunate love, or duty to the woman

embracing her, which seemed to ask for confidence, ought to

predominate. Here was a solution. She would wait till Miss

Aldclyffe referred to her acquaintanceship and attachment to

Cytherea's father in past times: then she would tell her all she

knew: that would be honour.

'Why can't you kiss me as I can kiss you? Why can't you!' She

impressed upon Cytherea's lips a warm motherly salute, given as if

in the outburst of strong feeling, long checked, and yearning for

something to love and be loved by in return.

'Do you think badly of me for my behaviour this evening, child?

I don't know why I am so foolish as to speak to you in this way. I

am a very fool, I believe. Yes. How old are you?'

'Eighteen.'

'Eighteen!… Well, why don't you ask me how old I am?'

'Because I don't want to know.'

'Never mind if you don't. I am forty-six; and it gives me

greater pleasure to tell you this than it does to you to listen. I

have not told my age truly for the last twenty years till now.'

'Why haven't you?'

'I have met deceit by deceit, till I am weary of it—weary,

weary—and I long to be what I shall never be again—artless and

innocent, like you. But I suppose that you, too, will, prove to be

not worth a thought, as every new friend does on more intimate

knowledge. Come, why don't you talk to me, child? Have you said

your prayers?'

'Yes—no! I forgot them to-night.'

'I suppose you say them every night as a rule?'

'Yes.'

'Why do you do that?'

'Because I have always done so, and it would seem strange if I

were not to. Do you?'

'I? A wicked old sinner like me! No, I never do. I have thought

all such matters humbug for years—thought so so long that I should

be glad to think otherwise from very weariness; and yet, such is

the code of the polite world, that I subscribe regularly to

Missionary Societies and others of the sort… . Well, say your

prayers, dear—you won't omit them now you recollect it. I should

like to hear you very much. Will you?'

'It seems hardly—'

'It would seem so like old times to me—when I was young, and

nearer—far nearer Heaven than I am now. Do, sweet one,'

Cytherea was embarrassed, and her embarrassment arose from the

following conjuncture of affairs. Since she had loved Edward

Springrove, she had linked his name with her brother Owen's in her

nightly supplications to the Almighty. She wished to keep her love

for him a secret, and, above all, a secret from a woman like Miss

Aldclyffe; yet her conscience and the honesty of her love would not

for an instant allow her to think of omitting his dear name, and so

endanger the efficacy of all her previous prayers for his success

by an unworthy shame now: it would be wicked of her, she thought,

and a grievous wrong to him. Under any worldly circumstances she

might have thought the position justified a little finesse, and

have skipped him for once; but prayer was too solemn a thing for

such trifling.

'I would rather not say them,' she murmured first. It struck her

then that this declining altogether was the same cowardice in

another dress, and was delivering her poor Edward over to Satan

just as unceremoniously as before. 'Yes; I will say my prayers, and

you shall hear me,' she added firmly.

She turned her face to the pillow and repeated in low soft tones

the simple words she had used from childhood on such occasions.

Owen's name was mentioned without faltering, but in the other case,

maidenly shyness was too strong even for religion, and that when

supported by excellent intentions. At the name of Edward she

stammered, and her voice sank to the faintest whisper in spite of

her.

'Thank you, dearest,' said Miss Aldclyffe. 'I have prayed too, I

verily believe. You are a good girl, I think.' Then the expected

question came.

'"Bless Owen," and whom, did you say?'

There was no help for it now, and out it came. 'Owen and

Edward,' said Cytherea.

'Who are Owen and Edward?'

'Owen is my brother, madam,' faltered the maid.

'Ah, I remember. Who is Edward?'

A silence.

'Your brother, too?' continued Miss Aldclyffe.

'No.'

Miss Aldclyffe reflected a moment. 'Don't you want to tell me

who Edward is?' she said at last, in a tone of meaning.

'I don't mind telling; only… .'

'You would rather not, I suppose?'

'Yes.'

Miss Aldclyffe shifted her ground. 'Were you ever in love?' she

inquired suddenly.

Cytherea was surprised to hear how quickly the voice had altered

from tenderness to harshness, vexation, and disappointment.

'Yes—I think I was—once,' she murmured.

'Aha! And were you ever kissed by a man?'

A pause.

'Well, were you?' said Miss Aldclyffe, rather sharply.

'Don't press me to tell—I can't—indeed, I won't, madam!'

Miss Aldclyffe removed her arms from Cytherea's neck. ''Tis now

with you as it is always with all girls,' she said, in jealous and

gloomy accents. 'You are not, after all, the innocent I took you

for. No, no.' She then changed her tone with fitful rapidity.

'Cytherea, try to love me more than you love him—do. I love you

more sincerely than any man can. Do, Cythie: don't let any man

stand between us. O, I can't bear that!' She clasped Cytherea's

neck again.

'I must love him now I have begun,' replied the other.

'Must—yes—must,' said the elder lady reproachfully. 'Yes, women

are all alike. I thought I had at last found an artless woman who

had not been sullied by a man's lips, and who had not practised or

been practised upon by the arts which ruin all the truth and

sweetness and goodness in us. Find a girl, if you can, whose mouth

and ears have not been made a regular highway of by some man or

another! Leave the admittedly notorious spots—the drawing-rooms of

society—and look in the villages—leave the villages and search in

the schools—and you can hardly find a girl whose heart has not

been had—is not an old thing half worn out by some He

or another! If men only knew the staleness of the freshest of us!

that nine times out of ten the "first love" they think they are

winning from a woman is but the hulk of an old wrecked affection,

fitted with new sails and re-used. O Cytherea, can it be that you,

too, are like the rest?'

'No, no, no,' urged Cytherea, awed by the storm she had raised

in the impetuous woman's mind. 'He only kissed me once—twice I

mean.'

'He might have done it a thousand times if he had cared to,

there's no doubt about that, whoever his lordship is. You are as

bad as I—we are all alike; and I—an old fool—have been sipping at

your mouth as if it were honey, because I fancied no wasting lover

knew the spot. But a minute ago, and you seemed to me like a fresh

spring meadow—now you seem a dusty highway.'

'O no, no!' Cytherea was not weak enough to shed tears except on

extraordinary occasions, but she was fain to begin sobbing now. She

wished Miss Aldclyffe would go to her own room, and leave her and

her treasured dreams alone. This vehement imperious affection was

in one sense soothing, but yet it was not of the kind that

Cytherea's instincts desired. Though it was generous, it seemed

somewhat too rank and capricious for endurance.

'Well,' said the lady in continuation, 'who is he?'

Her companion was desperately determined not to tell his name:

she too much feared a taunt when Miss Aldclyffe's fiery mood again

ruled her tongue.

'Won't you tell me? not tell me after all the affection I have

shown?'

'I will, perhaps, another day.'

'Did you wear a hat and white feather in Budmouth for the week

or two previous to your coming here?'

'Yes.'

'Then I have seen you and your lover at a distance! He rowed you

round the bay with your brother.'

'Yes.'

'And without your brother—fie! There, there, don't let that

little heart beat itself to death: throb, throb: it shakes the bed,

you silly thing. I didn't mean that there was any harm in going

alone with him. I only saw you from the Esplanade, in common with

the rest of the people. I often run down to Budmouth. He was a very

good figure: now who was he?'

'I—I won't tell, madam—I cannot indeed!'

'Won't tell—very well, don't. You are very foolish to treasure

up his name and image as you do. Why, he has had loves before you,

trust him for that, whoever he is, and you are but a temporary link

in a long chain of others like you: who only have your little day

as they have had theirs.'

''Tisn't true! 'tisn't true! 'tisn't true!' cried Cytherea in an

agony of t*****e. 'He has never loved anybody else, I know—I am

sure he hasn't.'

Miss Aldclyffe was as jealous as any man could have been. She

continued—

'He sees a beautiful face and thinks he will never forget it,

but in a few weeks the feeling passes off, and he wonders how he

could have cared for anybody so absurdly much.'

'No, no, he doesn't—What does he do when he has thought

that—Come, tell me—tell me!'

'You are as hot as fire, and the throbbing of your heart makes

me nervous. I can't tell you if you get in that flustered

state.'

'Do, do tell—O, it makes me so miserable! but tell—come tell

me!'

'Ah—the tables are turned now, dear!' she continued, in a tone

which mingled pity with derision—

'"Love's passions shall rock thee

As the storm rocks the ravens on high,

Bright reason will mock thee

Like the sun from a wintry sky."

'What does he do next?—Why, this is what he does next: ruminate

on what he has heard of women's romantic impulses, and how easily

men t*****e them when they have given way to those feelings, and

have resigned everything for their hero. It may be that though he

loves you heartily now—that is, as heartily as a man can—and you

love him in return, your loves may be impracticable and hopeless,

and you may be separated for ever. You, as the weary, weary years

pass by will fade and fade—bright

eyes will fade—and you will perhaps then die

early—true to him to your latest breath, and believing him to be

true to the latest breath also; whilst he, in some gay and busy

spot far away from your last quiet nook, will have married some

dashing lady, and not purely oblivious of you, will long have

ceased to regret you—will chat about you, as you were in long past

years—will say, "Ah, little Cytherea used to tie her hair like

that—poor innocent trusting thing; it was a pleasant useless idle

dream—that dream of mine for the maid with the bright eyes and

simple, silly heart; but I was a foolish lad at that time." Then he

will tell the tale of all your little Wills and Wont's and

particular ways, and as he speaks, turn to his wife with a placid

smile.'

'It is not true! He can't, he c-can't be s-so cruel—and you are

cruel to me—you are, you are!' She was at last driven to

desperation: her natural common sense and shrewdness had seen all

through the piece how imaginary her emotions were—she felt herself

to be weak and foolish in permitting them to rise; but even then

she could not control them: be agonized she must. She was only

eighteen, and the long day's labour, her weariness, her excitement,

had completely unnerved her, and worn her out: she was bent hither

and thither by this tyrannical working upon her imagination, as a

young rush in the wind. She wept bitterly. 'And now think how much

I like you,' resumed Miss Aldclyffe, when Cytherea grew calmer. 'I

shall never forget you for anybody else, as men do—never. I will be

exactly as a mother to you. Now will you promise to live with me

always, and always be taken care of, and never deserted?'

'I cannot. I will not be anybody's maid for another day on any

consideration.'

'No, no, no. You shan't be a lady's-maid. You shall be my

companion. I will get another maid.'

Companion—that was a new idea. Cytherea could not resist the

evidently heartfelt desire of the strange-tempered woman for her

presence. But she could not trust to the moment's impulse.

'I will stay, I think. But do not ask for a final answer

to-night.'

'Never mind now, then. Put your hair round your mamma's neck,

and give me one good long kiss, and I won't talk any more in that

way about your lover. After all, some young men are not so fickle

as others; but even if he's the ficklest, there is consolation. The

love of an inconstant man is ten times more ardent than that of a

faithful man—that is, while it lasts.'

Cytherea did as she was told, to escape the punishment of

further talk; flung the twining tresses of her long, rich hair over

Miss Aldclyffe's shoulders as directed, and the two ceased

conversing, making themselves up for sleep. Miss Aldclyffe seemed

to give herself over to a luxurious sense of content and quiet, as

if the maiden at her side afforded her a protection against dangers

which had menaced her for years; she was soon sleeping calmly.