LITMIR.BIZ

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doings, the mildewed walls, the uneven paving-stones, the wormy pews, the sense of recent occupation, and the dank air of death which had gathered with the evening, would have made grave a lighter mood than Cytherea’s was then.

      ‘What sensations does the place impress you with?’ she said at last, very sadly.

      ‘I feel imperatively called upon to be honest, from very despair of achieving anything by stratagem in a world where the materials are such as these.’ He, too, spoke in a depressed voice, purposely or otherwise.

      ‘I feel as if I were almost ashamed to be seen walking such a world,’ she murmured; ‘that’s the effect it has upon me; but it does not induce me to be honest particularly.’

      He took her hand in both his, and looked down upon the lids of her eyes.

      ‘I pity you sometimes,’ he said more emphatically.

      ‘I am pitiable, perhaps; so are many people. Why do you pity me?’

      ‘I think that you make yourself needlessly sad.’

      ‘Not needlessly.’

      ‘Yes, needlessly. Why should you be separated from your brother so much, when you might have him to stay with you till he is well?’

      ‘That can’t be,’ she said, turning away.

      He went on, ‘I think the real and only good thing that can be done for him is to get him away from Budmouth awhile; and I have been wondering whether it could not be managed for him to come to my house to live for a few weeks. Only a quarter of a mile from you. How pleasant it would be!’

      ‘It would.’

      He moved himself round immediately to the front of her, and held her hand more firmly, as he continued, ‘Cytherea, why do you say “It would,” so entirely in the tone of abstract supposition? I want him there: I want him to be my brother, too. Then make him so, and be my wife! I cannot live without you. O Cytherea, my darling, my love, come and be my wife!’

      His face bent closer and closer to hers, and the last words sank to a whisper as weak as the emotion inspiring it was strong.

      She said firmly and distinctly, ‘Yes, I will.’

      ‘Next month?’ he said on the instant, before taking breath.

      ‘No; not next month.’

      ‘The next?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘December? Christmas Day, say?’

      ‘I don’t mind.’

      ‘O, you darling!’ He was about to imprint a kiss upon her pale, cold mouth, but she hastily covered it with her hand.

      ‘Don’t kiss me — at least where we are now!’ she whispered imploringly.

      ‘Why?’

      ‘We are too near God.’

      He gave a sudden start, and his face flushed. She had spoken so emphatically that the words ‘Near God’ echoed back again through the hollow building from the far end of the chancel.

      ‘What a thing to say!’ he exclaimed; ‘surely a pure kiss is not inappropriate to the place!’

      ‘No,’ she replied, with a swelling heart; ‘I don’t know why I burst out so — I can’t tell what has come over me! Will you forgive me?’

      ‘How shall I say “Yes” without judging you? How shall I say “No” without losing the pleasure of saying “Yes?”’ He was himself again.

      ‘I don’t know,’ she absently murmured.

      ‘I’ll say “Yes,”’ he answered daintily. ‘It is sweeter to fancy we are forgiven, than to think we have not sinned; and you shall have the sweetness without the need.’

      She did not reply, and they moved away. The church was nearly dark now, and melancholy in the extreme. She stood beside him while he locked the door, then took the arm he gave her, and wound her way out of the churchyard with him. Then they walked to the house together, but the great matter having been set at rest, she persisted in talking only on indifferent subjects.

      ‘Christmas Day, then,’ he said, as they were parting at the end of the shrubbery.

      ‘I meant Old Christmas Day,’ she said evasively.

      ‘H’m, people do not usually attach that meaning to the words.’

      ‘No; but I should like it best if it could not be till then?’ It seemed to be still her instinct to delay the marriage to the utmost.

      ‘Very well, love,’ he said gently. ”Tis a fortnight longer still; but never mind. Old Christmas Day.’

      9. The Eleventh of September

      ‘There. It will be on a Friday!’

      She sat upon a little footstool gazing intently into the fire. It was the afternoon of the day following that of the steward’s successful solicitation of her hand.

      ‘I wonder if it would be proper in me to run across the park and tell him it is a Friday?’ she said to herself, rising to her feet, looking at her hat lying near, and then out of the window towards the Old House. Proper or not, she felt that she must at all hazards remove the disagreeable, though, as she herself owned, unfounded impression the coincidence had occasioned. She left the house directly, and went to search for him.

      Manston was in the timber-yard, looking at the sawyers as they worked. Cytherea came up to him hesitatingly. Till within a distance of a few yards she had hurried forward with alacrity — now that the practical expression of his face became visible she wished almost she had never sought him on such an errand; in his business-mood he was perhaps very stern.

      ‘It will be on a Friday,’ she said confusedly, and without any preface.

      ‘Come this way!’ said Manston, in the tone he used for workmen, not being able to alter at an instant’s notice. He gave her his arm and led her back into the avenue, by which time he was lover again. ‘On a Friday, will it, dearest? You do not mind Fridays, surely? That’s nonsense.’

      ‘Not seriously mind them, exactly — but if it could be any other day?’

      ‘Well, let us say Old Christmas Eve, then. Shall it be Old Christmas Eve?’

      ‘Yes, Old Christmas Eve.’

      ‘Your word is solemn, and irrevocable now?’

      ‘Certainly, I have solemnly pledged my word; I should not have promised to marry you if I had not meant it. Don’t think I should.’ She spoke the words with a dignified impressiveness.

      ‘You must not be vexed at my remark, dearest. Can you think the worse of an ardent man, Cytherea, for showing some anxiety in love?’

      ‘No, no.’ She could not say more. She was always ill at ease when he spoke of himself as a piece of human nature in that analytical way, and wanted to be out of his presence. The time of day, and the proximity of the house, afforded her a means of escape. ‘I must be with Miss Aldclyffe now — will you excuse my hasty coming and going?’ she said prettily. Before he had replied she had parted from him.

      ‘Cytherea, was it Mr. Manston I saw you scudding away from in the avenue just now?’ said Miss Aldclyffe, when Cytherea joined her.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘“Yes.” Come, why don’t you say more than that? I hate those taciturn “Yesses” of yours. I tell you everything, and yet you are as close as wax with me.’

      ‘I parted from him because I wanted to come in.’

      ‘What a novel and important announcement! Well, is the day fixed?’

      ‘Yes.’

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