Desperate Remedies

T >> Thomas Hardy >> Desperate Remedies


'Suppose he should come in now and seize me!' This at first mere
frenzied supposition grew by degrees to a definite horror of his
presence, and especially of his intense gaze. Thus she raised
herself to a heat of excitement, which was none the less real for
being vented in no cry of any kind. No; she could not meet
Manston's eye alone, she would only see him in her brother's
company.

Almost delirious with this idea, she ran and locked the door to
prevent all possibility of her intentions being nullified, or a look
or word being flung at her by anybody whilst she knew not what she
was.

8. HALF-PAST EIGHT O'CLOCK P.M.

Then Cytherea felt her way amid the darkness of the room till she
came to the head of the bed, where she searched for the bell-rope
and gave it a pull. Her summons was speedily answered by the
landlady herself, whose curiosity to know the meaning of these
strange proceedings knew no bounds. The landlady attempted to turn
the handle of the door. Cytherea kept the door locked. 'Please
tell Mr. Manston when he comes that I am ill,' she said from the
inside, 'and that I cannot see him.'

'Certainly I will, madam,' said the landlady. 'Won't you have a
fire?'

'No, thank you.'

'Nor a light?'

'I don't want one, thank you.'

'Nor anything?'

'Nothing.'

The landlady withdrew, thinking her visitor half insane.

Manston came in about five minutes later, and went at once up to the
sitting-room, fully expecting to find his wife there. He looked
round, rang, and was told the words Cytherea had said, that she was
too ill to be seen.

'She is in number twelve room,' added the maid.

Manston was alarmed, and knocked at the door. 'Cytherea!'

'I am unwell, I cannot see you,' she said.

'Are you seriously ill, dearest? Surely not.'

'No, not seriously.'

'Let me come in; I will get a doctor.'

'No, he can't see me either.'

'She won't open the door, sir, not to nobody at all!' said the
chambermaid, with wonder-waiting eyes.

'Hold your tongue, and be off!' said Manston with a snap.

The maid vanished.

'Come, Cytherea, this is foolish--indeed it is--not opening the
door. . . . I cannot comprehend what can be the matter with you.
Nor can a doctor either, unless he sees you.'

Her voice had trembled more and more at each answer she gave, but
nothing could induce her to come out and confront him. Hating
scenes, Manston went back to the sitting-room, greatly irritated and
perplexed.

And there Cytherea from the adjoining room could hear him pacing up
and down. She thought, 'Suppose he insists upon seeing me--he
probably may--and will burst open the door!' This notion increased,
and she sank into a corner in a half-somnolent state, but with ears
alive to the slightest sound. Reason could not overthrow the
delirious fancy that outside her door stood Manston and all the
people in the hotel, waiting to laugh her to scorn.

9. HALF-PAST EIGHT TO ELEVEN P.M.

In the meantime, Springrove was pacing up and down the arrival
platform of the railway-station. Half-past eight o'clock--the time
at which Owen's train was due--had come, and passed, but no train
appeared.

'When will the eight-thirty train be in?' he asked of a man who was
sweeping the mud from the steps.

'She is not expected yet this hour.'

'How is that?'

'Christmas-time, you see, 'tis always so. People are running about
to see their friends. The trains have been like it ever since
Christmas Eve, and will be for another week yet.'

Edward again went on walking and waiting under the draughty roof.
He found it utterly impossible to leave the spot. His mind was so
intent upon the importance of meeting with Owen, and informing him
of Cytherea's whereabouts, that he could not but fancy Owen might
leave the station unobserved if he turned his back, and become lost
to him in the streets of the town.

The hour expired. Ten o'clock struck. 'When will the train be in?'
said Edward to the telegraph clerk.

'In five-and-thirty minutes. She's now at L----. They have extra
passengers, and the rails are bad to-day.'

At last, at a quarter to eleven, the train came in.

The first to alight from it was Owen, looking pale and cold. He
casually glanced round upon the nearly deserted platform, and was
hurrying to the outlet, when his eyes fell upon Edward. At sight of
his friend he was quite bewildered, and could not speak.

'Here I am, Mr. Graye,' said Edward cheerfully. 'I have seen
Cytherea, and she has been waiting for you these two or three
hours.'

Owen took Edward's hand, pressed it, and looked at him in silence.
Such was the concentration of his mind, that not till many minutes
after did he think of inquiring how Springrove had contrived to be
there before him.

10. ELEVEN O'CLOCK P.M.

On their arrival at the door of the hotel, it was arranged between
Springrove and Graye that the latter only should enter, Edward
waiting outside. Owen had remembered continually what his friend
had frequently overlooked, that there was yet a possibility of his
sister being Manston's wife, and the recollection taught him to
avoid any rashness in his proceedings which might lead to bitterness
hereafter.

Entering the room, he found Manston sitting in the chair which had
been occupied by Cytherea on Edward's visit, three hours earlier.
Before Owen had spoken, Manston arose, and stepping past him closed
the door. His face appeared harassed--much more troubled than the
slight circumstance which had as yet come to his knowledge seemed to
account for.

Manston could form no reason for Owen's presence, but intuitively
linked it with Cytherea's seclusion. 'Altogether this is most
unseemly,' he said, 'whatever it may mean.'

'Don't think there is meant anything unfriendly by my coming here,'
said Owen earnestly; 'but listen to this, and think if I could do
otherwise than come.'

He took from his pocket the confession of Chinney the porter, as
hastily written out by the vicar, and read it aloud. The aspects of
Manston's face whilst he listened to the opening words were strange,
dark, and mysterious enough to have justified suspicions that no
deceit could be too complicated for the possessor of such impulses,
had there not overridden them all, as the reading went on, a new and
irrepressible expression--one unmistakably honest. It was that of
unqualified amazement in the steward's mind at the news he heard.
Owen looked up and saw it. The sight only confirmed him in the
belief he had held throughout, in antagonism to Edward's suspicions.

There could no longer be a shadow of doubt that if the first Mrs.
Manston lived, her husband was ignorant of the fact. What he could
have feared by his ghastly look at first, and now have ceased to
fear, it was quite futile to conjecture.

'Now I do not for a moment doubt your complete ignorance of the
whole matter; you cannot suppose for an instant that I do,' said
Owen when he had finished reading. 'But is it not best for both
that Cytherea should come back with me till the matter is cleared
up? In fact, under the circumstances, no other course is left open
to me than to request it.'

Whatever Manston's original feelings had been, all in him now gave
way to irritation, and irritation to rage. He paced up and down the
room till he had mastered it; then said in ordinary tones--

'Certainly, I know no more than you and others know--it was a
gratuitous unpleasantness in you to say you did not doubt me. Why
should you, or anybody, have doubted me?'

'Well, where is my sister?' said Owen.

'Locked in the next room.'

His own answer reminded Manston that Cytherea must, by some
inscrutable means, have had an inkling of the event.

Owen had gone to the door of Cytherea's room.

'Cytherea, darling--'tis Owen,' he said, outside the door. A
rustling of clothes, soft footsteps, and a voice saying from the
inside, 'Is it really you, Owen,--is it really?'

'It is.'

'O, will you take care of me?'

'Always.'

She unlocked the door, and retreated again. Manston came forward
from the other room with a candle in his hand, as Owen pushed open
the door.

Her frightened eyes were unnaturally large, and shone like stars in
the darkness of the background, as the light fell upon them. She
leapt up to Owen in one bound, her small taper fingers extended like
the leaves of a lupine. Then she clasped her cold and trembling
hands round his neck and shivered.

The sight of her again kindled all Manston's passions into activity.
'She shall not go with you,' he said firmly, and stepping a pace or
two closer, 'unless you prove that she is not my wife; and you can't
do it!'

'This is proof,' said Owen, holding up the paper.

'No proof at all,' said Manston hotly. ''Tis not a death-bed
confession, and those are the only things of the kind held as good
evidence.'

'Send for a lawyer,' Owen returned, 'and let him tell us the proper
course to adopt.'

'Never mind the law--let me go with Owen!' cried Cytherea, still
holding on to him. 'You will let me go with him, won't you, sir?'
she said, turning appealingly to Manston.

'We'll have it all right and square,' said Manston, with more
quietness. 'I have no objection to your brother sending for a
lawyer, if he wants to.'

It was getting on for twelve o'clock, but the proprietor of the
hotel had not yet gone to bed on account of the mystery on the first
floor, which was an occurrence unusual in the quiet family lodging.
Owen looked over the banisters, and saw him standing in the hall.
It struck Graye that the wisest course would be to take the landlord
to a certain extent into their confidence, appeal to his honour as a
gentleman, and so on, in order to acquire the information he wanted,
and also to prevent the episode of the evening from becoming a
public piece of news. He called the landlord up to where they
stood, and told him the main facts of the story.

The landlord was fortunately a quiet, prejudiced man, and a
meditative smoker.

'I know the very man you want to see--the very man,' he said,
looking at the general features of the candle-flame. 'Sharp as a
needle, and not over-rich. Timms will put you all straight in no
time--trust Timms for that.'

'He's in bed by this time for certain,' said Owen.

'Never mind that--Timms knows me, I know him. He'll oblige me as a
personal favour. Wait here a bit. Perhaps, too, he's up at some
party or another--he's a nice, jovial fellow, sharp as a needle,
too; mind you, sharp as a needle, too.'

He went downstairs, put on his overcoat, and left the house, the
three persons most concerned entering the room, and standing
motionless, awkward, and silent in the midst of it. Cytherea
pictured to herself the long weary minutes she would have to stand
there, whilst a sleepy man could be prepared for consultation, till
the constraint between them seemed unendurable to her--she could
never last out the time. Owen was annoyed that Manston had not
quietly arranged with him at once; Manston at Owen's homeliness of
idea in proposing to send for an attorney, as if he would be a
touchstone of infallible proof.

Reflection was cut short by the approach of footsteps, and in a few
moments the proprietor of the hotel entered, introducing his friend.
'Mr. Timms has not been in bed,' he said; 'he had just returned from
dining with a few friends, so there's no trouble given. To save
time I explained the matter as we came along.'

It occurred to Owen and Manston both that they might get a misty
exposition of the law from Mr. Timms at that moment of concluding
dinner with a few friends.

'As far as I can see,' said the lawyer, yawning, and turning his
vision inward by main force, 'it is quite a matter for private
arrangement between the parties, whoever the parties are--at least
at present. I speak more as a father than as a lawyer, it is true,
but, let the young lady stay with her father, or guardian, safe out
of shame's way, until the mystery is sifted, whatever the mystery
is. Should the evidence prove to be false, or trumped up by anybody
to get her away from you, her husband, you may sue them for the
damages accruing from the delay.'

'Yes, yes,' said Manston, who had completely recovered his
self-possession and common-sense; 'let it all be settled by herself.'
Turning to Cytherea he whispered so softly that Owen did not hear
the words--

'Do you wish to go back with your brother, dearest, and leave me
here miserable, and lonely, or will you stay with me, your own
husband.'

'I'll go back with Owen.'

'Very well.' He relinquished his coaxing tone, and went on sternly:
'And remember this, Cytherea, I am as innocent of deception in this
thing as you are yourself. Do you believe me?'

'I do,' she said.

'I had no shadow of suspicion that my first wife lived. I don't
think she does even now. Do you believe me?'

'I believe you,' she said.

'And now, good-evening,' he continued, opening the door and politely
intimating to the three men standing by that there was no further
necessity for their remaining in his room. 'In three days I shall
claim her.'

The lawyer and the hotel-keeper retired first. Owen, gathering up
as much of his sister's clothing as lay about the room, took her
upon his arm, and followed them. Edward, to whom she owed
everything, who had been left standing in the street like a dog
without a home, was utterly forgotten. Owen paid the landlord and
the lawyer for the trouble he had occasioned them, looked to the
packing, and went to the door.

A fly, which somewhat unaccountably was seen lingering in front of
the house, was called up, and Cytherea's luggage put upon it.

'Do you know of any hotel near the station that is open for night
arrivals?' Owen inquired of the driver.

'A place has been bespoke for you, sir, at the White Unicorn--and
the gentleman wished me to give you this.'

'Bespoken by Springrove, who ordered the fly, of course,' said Owen
to himself. By the light of the street-lamp he read these lines,
hurriedly traced in pencil:--

'I have gone home by the mail-train. It is better for all parties
that I should be out of the way. Tell Cytherea that I apologize for
having caused her such unnecessary pain, as it seems I did--but it
cannot be helped now. E.S.'

Owen handed his sister into the vehicle, and told the flyman to
drive on.

'Poor Springrove--I think we have served him rather badly,' he said
to Cytherea, repeating the words of the note to her.

A thrill of pleasure passed through her bosom as she listened to
them. They were the genuine reproach of a lover to his mistress;
the trifling coldness of her answer to him would have been noticed
by no man who was only a friend. But, in entertaining that sweet
thought, she had forgotten herself, and her position for the
instant.

Was she still Manston's wife--that was the terrible supposition, and
her future seemed still a possible misery to her. For, on account
of the late jarring accident, a life with Manston which would
otherwise have been only a sadness, must become a burden of
unutterable sorrow.

Then she thought of the misrepresentation and scandal that would
ensue if she were no wife. One cause for thankfulness accompanied
the reflection; Edward knew the truth.

They soon reached the quiet old inn, which had been selected for
them by the forethought of the man who loved her well. Here they
installed themselves for the night, arranging to go to Budmouth by
the first train the next day.

At this hour Edward Springrove was fast approaching his native
county on the wheels of the night-mail.



XIV. THE EVENTS OF FIVE WEEKS

1. FROM THE SIXTH TO THE THIRTEENTH OF JANUARY

Manston had evidently resolved to do nothing in a hurry.

This much was plain, that his earnest desire and intention was to
raise in Cytherea's bosom no feelings of permanent aversion to him.
The instant after the first burst of disappointment had escaped him
in the hotel at Southampton, he had seen how far better it would be
to lose her presence for a week than her respect for ever.

'She shall be mine; I will claim the young thing yet,' he insisted.
And then he seemed to reason over methods for compassing that
object, which, to all those who were in any degree acquainted with
the recent event, appeared the least likely of possible
contingencies.

He returned to Knapwater late the next day, and was preparing to
call on Miss Aldclyffe, when the conclusion forced itself upon him
that nothing would be gained by such a step. No; every action of
his should be done openly--even religiously. At least, he called on
the rector, and stated this to be his resolve.

'Certainly,' said Mr. Raunham, 'it is best to proceed candidly and
fairly, or undue suspicion may fall on you. You should, in my
opinion, take active steps at once.'

'I will do the utmost that lies in my power to clear up the mystery,
and silence the hubbub of gossip that has been set going about me.
But what can I do? They say that the man who comes first in the
chain of inquiry is not to be found--I mean the porter.'

'I am sorry to say that he is not. When I returned from the station
last night, after seeing Owen Graye off, I went again to the cottage
where he has been lodging, to get more intelligence, as I thought.
He was not there. He had gone out at dusk, saying he would be back
soon. But he has not come back yet.'

'I rather doubt if we shall see him again.'

'Had I known of this, I would have done what in my flurry I did not
think of doing--set a watch upon him. But why not advertise for
your missing wife as a preliminary, consulting your solicitor in the
meantime?'

'Advertise. I'll think about it,' said Manston, lingering on the
word as he pronounced it. 'Yes, that seems a right thing--quite a
right thing.'

He went home and remained moodily indoors all the next day and the
next--for nearly a week, in short. Then, one evening at dusk, he
went out with an uncertain air as to the direction of his walk,
which resulted, however, in leading him again to the rectory.

He saw Mr. Raunham. 'Have you done anything yet?' the rector
inquired.

'No--I have not,' said Manston absently. 'But I am going to set
about it.' He hesitated, as if ashamed of some weakness he was
about to betray. 'My object in calling was to ask if you had heard
any tidings from Budmouth of my--Cytherea. You used to speak of her
as one you were interested in.'

There was, at any rate, real sadness in Manston's tone now, and the
rector paused to weigh his words ere he replied.

'I have not heard directly from her,' he said gently. 'But her
brother has communicated with some people in the parish--'

'The Springroves, I suppose,' said Manston gloomily.

'Yes; and they tell me that she is very ill, and I am sorry to say,
likely to be for some days.'

'Surely, surely, I must go and see her!' Manston cried.

'I would advise you not to go,' said Raunham. 'But do this instead
--be as quick as you can in making a movement towards ascertaining
the truth as regards the existence of your wife. You see, Mr.
Manston, an out-step place like this is not like a city, and there
is nobody to busy himself for the good of the community; whilst poor
Cytherea and her brother are socially too dependent to be able to
make much stir in the matter, which is a greater reason still why
you should be disinterestedly prompt.'

The steward murmured an assent. Still there was the same
indecision!--not the indecision of weakness--the indecision of
conscious perplexity.

On Manston's return from this interview at the rectory, he passed
the door of the Rising Sun Inn. Finding he had no light for his
cigar, and it being three-quarters of a mile to his residence in the
park, he entered the tavern to get one. Nobody was in the outer
portion of the front room where Manston stood, but a space round the
fire was screened off from the remainder, and inside the high oak
settle, forming a part of the screen, he heard voices conversing.
The speakers had not noticed his footsteps, and continued their
discourse.

One of the two he recognized as a well-known night-poacher, the man
who had met him with tidings of his wife's death on the evening of
the conflagration. The other seemed to be a stranger following the
same mode of life. The conversation was carried on in the emphatic
and confidential tone of men who are slightly intoxicated, its
subject being an unaccountable experience that one of them had had
on the night of the fire.

What the steward heard was enough, and more than enough, to lead him
to forget or to renounce his motive in entering. The effect upon
him was strange and strong. His first object seemed to be to escape
from the house again without being seen or heard.

Having accomplished this, he went in at the park gate, and strode
off under the trees to the Old House. There sitting down by the
fire, and burying himself in reflection, he allowed the minutes to
pass by unheeded. First the candle burnt down in its socket and
stunk: he did not notice it. Then the fire went out: he did not
see it. His feet grew cold; still he thought on.

It may be remarked that a lady, a year and a quarter before this
time, had, under the same conditions--an unrestricted mental
absorption--shown nearly the same peculiarities as this man evinced
now. The lady was Miss Aldclyffe.

It was half-past twelve when Manston moved, as if he had come to a
determination.

The first thing he did the next morning was to call at Knapwater
House; where he found that Miss Aldclyffe was not well enough to see
him. She had been ailing from slight internal haemorrhage ever
since the confession of the porter Chinney. Apparently not much
aggrieved at the denial, he shortly afterwards went to the
railway-station and took his departure for London, leaving a letter
for Miss Aldclyffe, stating the reason of his journey thither--to
recover traces of his missing wife.

During the remainder of the week paragraphs appeared in the local
and other newspapers, drawing attention to the facts of this
singular case. The writers, with scarcely an exception, dwelt
forcibly upon a feature which had at first escaped the observation
of the villagers, including Mr. Raunham--that if the announcement of
the man Chinney were true, it seemed extremely probable that Mrs.
Manston left her watch and keys behind on purpose to blind people as
to her escape; and that therefore she would not now let herself be
discovered, unless a strong pressure were put upon her. The writers
added that the police were on the track of the porter, who very
possibly had absconded in the fear that his reticence was criminal,
and that Mr. Manston, the husband, was, with praiseworthy energy,
making every effort to clear the whole matter up.

2. FROM THE EIGHTEENTH TO THE END OF JANUARY

Five days from the time of his departure, Manston returned from
London and Liverpool, looking very fatigued and thoughtful. He
explained to the rector and other of his acquaintance that all the
inquiries he had made at his wife's old lodgings and his own had
been totally barren of results.

But he seemed inclined to push the affair to a clear conclusion now
that he had commenced. After the lapse of another day or two he
proceeded to fulfil his promise to the rector, and advertised for
the missing woman in three of the London papers. The advertisement
was a carefully considered and even attractive effusion, calculated
to win the heart, or at least the understanding, of any woman who
had a spark of her own nature left in her.

There was no answer.

Three days later he repeated the experiment; with the same result as
before.

'I cannot try any further,' said Manston speciously to the rector,
his sole auditor throughout the proceedings. 'Mr. Raunham, I'll
tell you the truth plainly: I don't love her; I do love Cytherea,
and the whole of this business of searching for the other woman goes
altogether against me. I hope to God I shall never see her again.'

'But you will do your duty at least?' said Mr. Raunham.

'I have done it,' said Manston. 'If ever a man on the face of this
earth has done his duty towards an absent wife, I have towards her
--living or dead--at least,' he added, correcting himself, 'since I
have lived at Knapwater. I neglected her before that time--I own
that, as I have owned it before.'

'I should, if I were you, adopt other means to get tidings of her if
advertising fails, in spite of my feelings,' said the rector
emphatically. 'But at any rate, try advertising once more. There's
a satisfaction in having made any attempt three several times.'

When Manston had left the study, the rector stood looking at the
fire for a considerable length of time, lost in profound reflection.
He went to his private diary, and after many pauses, which he varied
only by dipping his pen, letting it dry, wiping it on his sleeve,
and then dipping it again, he took the following note of events:--


'January 25.--Mr. Manston has just seen me for the third time on the
subject of his lost wife. There have been these peculiarities
attending the three interviews:--

'The first. My visitor, whilst expressing by words his great
anxiety to do everything for her recovery, showed plainly by his
bearing that he was convinced he should never see her again.