by Thomas Hardy
He smelt the fragrance of a cigar, and immediately afterwards saw a small red star of fire against the darkness of the hedge. Graye was pacing up and down the lane, smoking as he walked. Springrove told him the result of the interview.
‘You are a good fellow, Edward,’ he said; ‘but I think my sister is right.’
‘I wish you would believe Manston a villain, as I do,’ said Springrove.
‘It would be absurd of me to say that I like him now — family feeling prevents it, but I cannot in honesty say deliberately that he is a bad man.’
Edward could keep the secret of Manston’s coercion of Miss Aldclyffe in the matter of the houses a secret no longer. He told Owen the whole story.
‘That’s one thing,’ he continued, ‘but not all. What do you think of this — I have discovered that he went to Budmouth post-office for a letter the day before the first advertisement for his wife appeared in the papers. One was there for him, and it was directed in his wife’s handwriting, as I can prove. This was not till after the marriage with Cytherea, it is true, but if (as it seems to show) the advertising was a farce, there is a strong presumption that the rest of the piece was.’
Owen was too astounded to speak. He dropped his cigar, and fixed his eyes upon his companion.
‘Collusion!’
‘Yes.’
‘With his first wife?’
‘Yes — with his wife. I am firmly persuaded of it.’
‘What did you discover?’
‘That he fetched from the post-office at Budmouth a letter from her the day before the first advertisement appeared.’
Graye was lost in a long consideration. ‘Ah!’ he said, ‘it would be difficult to prove anything of that sort now. The writing could not be sworn to, and if he is guilty the letter is destroyed.’
‘I have other suspicions — ’
‘Yes — as you said’ interrupted Owen, who had not till now been able to form the complicated set of ideas necessary for picturing the position. ‘Yes, there is this to be remembered — Cytherea had been taken from him before that letter came — and his knowledge of his wife’s existence could not have originated till after the wedding. I could have sworn he believed her dead then. His manner was unmistakable.’
‘Well, I have other suspicions,’ repeated Edward; ‘and if I only had the right — if I were her husband or brother, he should be convicted of bigamy yet.’
‘The reproof was not needed,’ said Owen, with a little bitterness. ‘What can I do — a man with neither money nor friends — whilst Manston has Miss Aldclyffe and all her fortune to back him up? God only knows what lies between the mistress and her steward, but since this has transpired — if it is true — I can believe the connection to be even an unworthy one — a thing I certainly never so much as owned to myself before.’
3. THE FIFTH OF MARCH
Edward’s disclosure had the effect of directing Owen Graye’s thoughts into an entirely new and uncommon channel.
On the Monday after Springrove’s visit, Owen had walked to the top of a hill in the neighbourhood of Tolchurch — a wild hill that had no name, beside a barren down where it never looked like summer. In the intensity of his meditations on the ever-present subject, he sat down on a weather-beaten boundary-stone gazing towards the distant valleys — seeing only Manston’s imagined form.
Had his defenceless sister been trifled with? that was the question which affected him. Her refusal of Edward as a husband was, he knew, dictated solely by a humiliated sense of inadequacy to him in repute, and had not been formed till since the slanderous tale accounting for her seclusion had been circulated. Was it not true, as Edward had hinted, that he, her brother, was neglecting his duty towards her in allowing Manston to thrive unquestioned, whilst she was hiding her head for no fault at all?
Was it possible that Manston was sensuous villain enough to have contemplated, at any moment before the marriage with Cytherea, the return of his first wife, when he should have grown weary of his new toy? Had he believed that, by a skilful manipulation of such circumstances as chance would throw in his way, he could escape all suspicion of having known that she lived? Only one fact within his own direct knowledge afforded the least ground for such a supposition. It was that, possessed by a woman only in the humble and unprotected station of a lady’s hired companion, his sister’s beauty might scarcely have been sufficient to induce a selfish man like Manston to make her his wife, unless he had foreseen the possibility of getting rid of her again.
‘But for that stratagem of Manston’s in relation to the Springroves,’ Owen thought, ‘Cythie might now have been the happy wife of Edward. True, that he influenced Miss Aldclyffe only rests on Edward’s suspicions, but the grounds are good — the probability is strong.’
He went indoors and questioned Cytherea.
‘On the night of the fire, who first said that Mrs. Manston was burnt?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know who started the report.’
‘Was it Manston?’
‘It was certainly not he. All doubt on the subject was removed before he came to the spot — that I am certain of. Everybody knew that she did not escape after the house was on fire, and thus all overlooked the fact that she might have left before — of course that would have seemed such an improbable thing for anybody to do.’
‘Yes, until the porter’s story of her irritation and doubt as to her course made it natural.’
‘What settled the matter at the inquest,’ said Cytherea, ‘was Mr. Manston’s evidence that the watch was his wife’s.’
‘He was sure of that, wasn’t he?’
‘I believe he said he was certain of it.’
‘It might have been hers — left behind in her perturbation, as they say it was — impossible as that seems at first sight. Yes — on the whole, he might have believed in her death.’
‘I know by several proofs that then, and at least for some time after, he had no other thought than that she was dead. I now think that before the porter’s confession he knew something about her — though not that she lived.’
‘Why do you?’
‘From what he said to me on the evening of the wedding-day, when I had fastened myself in the room at the hotel, after Edward’s visit. He must have suspected that I knew something, for he was irritated, and in a passion of uneasy doubt. He said, “You don’t suppose my first wife is come to light again, madam, surely?” Directly he had let the remark slip out, he seemed anxious to withdraw it.’
‘That’s odd,’ said Owen.
‘I thought it very odd.’
‘Still we must remember he might only have hit upon the thought by accident, in doubt as to your motive. Yes, the great point to discover remains the same as ever — did he doubt his first impression of her death before he married you. I can’t help thinking he did, although he was so astounded at our news that night. Edward swears he did.’
‘It was perhaps only a short time before,’ said Cytherea; ‘when he could hardly recede from having me.’
‘Seasoning justice with mercy as usual, Cytherea. ‘Tis unfair to yourself to talk like that. If I could only bring him to ruin as a bigamist — supposing him to be one — I should die happy. That’s what we must find out by fair means or foul — was he a wilful bigamist?’
‘It is no use trying, Owen. You would have to employ a solicitor, and how can you do that?’
‘I can’t at all — I know that very well. But neither do I altogether wish to at present — a lawyer must have a case — facts to go upon, that means. Now they are scarce at present — as scarce as money is with us, and till we have found more money there is no hurry for a lawyer. Perhaps by the time we have the facts we shall have the money. The only thing we lose in working alone in this way, is time — not the issue: for the fruit that one mind matures in a twelvemonth forms a more perfectly organized whole than that of twelve minds in one month, especially if the interests of the single one are vitally concerned, and those of the twelve ar
e only hired. But there is not only my mind available — you are a shrewd woman, Cythie, and Edward is an earnest ally. Then, if we really get a sure footing for a criminal prosecution, the Crown will take up the case.’
‘I don’t much care to press on in the matter,’ she murmured. ‘What good can it do us, Owen, after all?’
‘Selfishly speaking, it will do this good — that all the facts of your journey to Southampton will become known, and the scandal will die. Besides, Manston will have to suffer — it’s an act of justice to you and to other women, and to Edward Springrove.’
He now thought it necessary to tell her of the real nature of the Springroves’ obligation to Miss Aldclyffe — and their nearly certain knowledge that Manston was the prime mover in effecting their embarrassment. Her face flushed as she listened.
‘And now,’ he said, ‘our first undertaking is to find out where Mrs. Manston lived during the separation; next, when the first communications passed between them after the fire.’
‘If we only had Miss Aldclyffe’s countenance and assistance as I used to have them,’ Cytherea returned, ‘how strong we should be! O, what power is it that he exercises over her, swaying her just as he wishes! She loves me now. Mrs. Morris in her letter said that Miss Aldclyffe prayed for me — yes, she heard her praying for me, and crying. Miss Aldclyffe did not mind an old friend like Mrs. Morris knowing it, either. Yet in opposition to this, notice her dead silence and inaction throughout this proceeding.’
‘It is a mystery; but never mind that now,’ said Owen impressively. ‘About where Mrs. Manston has been living. We must get this part of it first — learn the place of her stay in the early stage of their separation, during the period of Manston’s arrival here, and so on, for that was where she was first communicated with on the subject of coming to Knapwater, before the fire; and that address, too, was her point of departure when she came to her husband by stealth in the night — you know — the time I visited you in the evening and went home early in the morning, and it was found that he had been visited too. Ah! couldn’t we inquire of Mrs. Leat, who keeps the post-office at Carriford, if she remembers where the letters to Mrs. Manston were directed?’
‘He never posted his letters to her in the parish — it was remarked at the time. I was thinking if something relating to her address might not be found in the report of the inquest in the Casterbridge Chronicle of the date. Some facts about the inquest were given in the papers to a certainty.’
Her brother caught eagerly at the suggestion. ‘Who has a file of the Chronicles?’ he said.
‘Mr. Raunham used to file them,’ said Cytherea. ‘He was rather friendly-disposed towards me, too.’
Owen could not, on any consideration, escape from his attendance at the church-building till Saturday evening; and thus it became necessary, unless they actually wasted time, that Cytherea herself should assist. ‘I act under your orders, Owen,’ she said.
XVI. THE EVENTS OF ONE WEEK
1. MARCH THE SIXTH
The next morning the opening move of the game was made. Cytherea, under cover of a thick veil, hired a conveyance and drove to within a mile or so of Carriford. It was with a renewed sense of depression that she saw again the objects which had become familiar to her eye during her sojourn under Miss Aldclyffe’s roof — the outline of the hills, the meadow streams, the old park trees. She hastened by a lonely path to the rectory-house, and asked if Mr. Raunham was at home.
Now the rector, though a solitary bachelor, was as gallant and courteous to womankind as an ancient Iberian; and, moreover, he was Cytherea’s friend in particular, to an extent far greater than she had ever surmised. Rarely visiting his relative, Miss Aldclyffe, except on parish matters, more rarely still being called upon by Miss Aldclyffe, Cytherea had learnt very little of him whilst she lived at Knapwater. The relationship was on the impecunious paternal side, and for this branch of her family the lady of the estate had never evinced much sympathy. In looking back upon our line of descent it is an instinct with us to feel that all our vitality was drawn from the richer party to any unequal marriage in the chain.
Since the death of the old captain, the rector’s bearing in Knapwater House had been almost that of a stranger, a circumstance which he himself was the last man in the world to regret. This polite indifference was so frigid on both sides that the rector did not concern himself to preach at her, which was a great deal in a rector; and she did not take the trouble to think his sermons poor stuff, which in a cynical woman was a great deal more.
Though barely fifty years of age, his hair was as white as snow, contrasting strangely with the redness of his skin, which was as fresh and healthy as a lad’s. Cytherea’s bright eyes, mutely and demurely glancing up at him Sunday after Sunday, had been the means of driving away many of the saturnine humours that creep into an empty heart during the hours of a solitary life; in this case, however, to supplant them, when she left his parish, by those others of a more aching nature which accompany an over-full one. In short, he had been on the verge of feeling towards her that passion to which his dignified self-respect would not give its true name, even in the privacy of his own thought.
He received her kindly; but she was not disposed to be frank with him. He saw her wish to be reserved, and with genuine good taste and good nature made no comment whatever upon her request to be allowed to see the Chronicle for the year before the last. He placed the papers before her on his study table, with a timidity as great as her own, and then left her entirely to herself.
She turned them over till she came to the first heading connected with the subject of her search — ’Disastrous Fire and Loss of Life at Carriford.’
The sight, and its calamitous bearing upon her own life, made her so dizzy that she could, for a while, hardly decipher the letters. Stifling recollection by an effort she nerved herself to her work, and carefully read the column. The account reminded her of no other fact than was remembered already.
She turned on to the following week’s report of the inquest. After a miserable perusal she could find no more pertaining to Mrs. Manston’s address than this: —
‘ABRAHAM BROWN, of Hoxton, London, at whose house the deceased woman had been living, deposed,’ etc.
Nobody else from London had attended the inquest. She arose to depart, first sending a message of thanks to Mr. Raunham, who was out of doors gardening.
He stuck his spade into the ground, and accompanied her to the gate.
‘Can I help you in anything, Cytherea?’ he said, using her Christian name by an intuition that unpleasant memories might be revived if he called her Miss Graye after wishing her good-bye as Mrs. Manston at the wedding. Cytherea saw the motive and appreciated it, nevertheless replying evasively —
‘I only guess and fear.’
He earnestly looked at her again.
‘Promise me that if you want assistance, and you think I can give it, you will come to me.’
‘I will,’ she said.
The gate closed between them.
‘You don’t want me to help you in anything now, Cytherea?’ he repeated.
If he had spoken what he felt, ‘I want very much to help you, Cytherea, and have been watching Manston on your account,’ she would gladly have accepted his offer. As it was, she was perplexed, and raised her eyes to his, not so fearlessly as before her trouble, but as modestly, and with still enough brightness in them to do fearful execution as she said over the gate —
‘No, thank you.’
She returned to Tolchurch weary with her day’s work. Owen’s greeting was anxious —
‘Well, Cytherea?’
She gave him the words from the report of the inquest, pencilled on a slip of paper.
‘Now to find out the name of the street and number,’ Owen remarked.
‘Owen,’ she said, ‘will you forgive me for what I am going to say? I don’t think I can — indeed I don’t think I can — take any further steps towards disentangling the mystery. I still t
hink it a useless task, and it does not seem any duty of mine to be revenged upon Mr. Manston in any way.’ She added more gravely, ‘It is beneath my dignity as a woman to labour for this; I have felt it so all day.’
‘Very well,’ he said, somewhat shortly; ‘I shall work without you then. There’s dignity in justice.’ He caught sight of her pale tired face, and the dilated eye which always appeared in her with weariness. ‘Darling,’ he continued warmly, and kissing her, ‘you shall not work so hard again — you are worn out quite. But you must let me do as I like.’
2. MARCH THE TENTH
On Saturday evening Graye hurried off to Casterbridge, and called at the house of the reporter to the Chronicle. The reporter was at home, and came out to Graye in the passage. Owen explained who and what he was, and asked the man if he would oblige him by turning to his notes of the inquest at Carriford in the December of the year preceding the last — just adding that a family entanglement, of which the reporter probably knew something, made him anxious to ascertain some additional details of the event, if any existed.
‘Certainly,’ said the other, without hesitation; ‘though I am afraid I haven’t much beyond what we printed at the time. Let me see — my old note-books are in my drawer at the office of the paper: if you will come with me I can refer to them there.’ His wife and family were at tea inside the room, and with the timidity of decent poverty everywhere he seemed glad to get a stranger out of his domestic groove.
They crossed the street, entered the office, and went thence to an inner room. Here, after a short search, was found the book required. The precise address, not given in the condensed report that was printed, but written down by the reporter, was as follows: —
‘ABRAHAM BROWN,
LODGING-HOUSE KEEPER,
41 CHARLES SQUARE,
HOXTON.’
Owen copied it, and gave the reporter a small fee. ‘I want to keep this inquiry private for the present,’ he said hesitatingly. ‘You will perhaps understand why, and oblige me.’