’O, what hast thou of her, of her
     Whose every look did love inspire;
     Whose every breathing fanned my fire,
     And stole me from myself away!’

Then, without letting him see her, Cytherea slipt out of church early, and went home, the tones of the organ still lingering in her ears as she tried bravely to kill a jealous thought that would nevertheless live:  ’My nature is one capable of more, far more, intense feeling than hers!  She can’t appreciate all the sides of him—­she never will!  He is more tangible to me even now, as a thought, than his presence itself is to her!’ She was less noble then.

But she continually repressed her misery and bitterness of heart till the effort to do so showed signs of lessening.  At length she even tried to hope that her lost lover and her rival would love one another very dearly.

The scene and the sentiment dropped into the past.  Meanwhile, Manston continued visibly before her.  He, though quiet and subdued in his bearing for a long time after the calamity of November, had not simulated a grief that he did not feel.  At first his loss seemed so to absorb him—­though as a startling change rather than as a heavy sorrow—­that he paid Cytherea no attention whatever.  His conduct was uniformly kind and respectful, but little more.  Then, as the date of the catastrophe grew remoter, he began to wear a different aspect towards her.  He always contrived to obliterate by his manner all recollection on her side that she was comparatively more dependent than himself—­making much of her womanhood, nothing of her situation.  Prompt to aid her whenever occasion offered, and full of delightful petits soins at all times, he was not officious.  In this way he irresistibly won for himself a position as her friend, and the more easily in that he allowed not the faintest symptom of the old love to be apparent.

Matters stood thus in the middle of the spring when the next move on his behalf was made by Miss Aldclyffe.

2.  THE THIRD OF MAY

She led Cytherea to a summer-house called the Fane, built in the private grounds about the mansion in the form of a Grecian temple; it overlooked the lake, the island on it, the trees, and their undisturbed reflection in the smooth still water.  Here the old and young maid halted; here they stood, side by side, mentally imbibing the scene.

The month was May—­the time, morning.  Cuckoos, thrushes, blackbirds, and sparrows gave forth a perfect confusion of song and twitter.  The road was spotted white with the fallen leaves of apple-blossoms, and the sparkling grey dew still lingered on the grass and flowers.  Two swans floated into view in front of the women, and then crossed the water towards them.

’They seem to come to us without any will of their own—­quite involuntarily—­don’t they?’ said Cytherea, looking at the birds’ graceful advance.

’Yes, but if you look narrowly you can see their hips just beneath the water, working with the greatest energy.’