Desperate Remedies

by Thomas Hardy

  XI. THE EVENTS OF FIVE DAYS

  1. NOVEMBER THE TWENTY-NINTH

  The search began at dawn, but a quarter past nine o'clock came withoutbringing any result. Manston ate a little breakfast, and crossedthe hollow of the park which intervened between the old and modernmanor-houses, to ask for an interview with Miss Aldclyffe.

  He met her midway. She was about to pay him a visit of condolence, andto place every man on the estate at his disposal, that the searchfor any relic of his dead and destroyed wife might not be delayed aninstant.

  He accompanied her back to the house. At first they conversed as if thedeath of the poor woman was an event which the husband must of necessitydeeply lament; and when all under this head that social form seemed torequire had been uttered, they spoke of the material damage done, and ofthe steps which had better be taken to remedy it.

  It was not till both were shut inside her private room that she spoketo him in her blunt and cynical manner. A certain newness of bearing inhim, peculiar to the present morning, had hitherto forbidden her thistone: the demeanour of the subject of her favouritism had altered, shecould not tell in what way. He was entirely a changed man.

  'Are you really sorry for your poor wife, Mr. Manston?' she said.

  'Well, I am,' he answered shortly.

  'But only as for any human being who has met with a violent death?'

  He confessed it--'For she was not a good woman,' he added.

  'I should be sorry to say such a thing now the poor creature is dead,'Miss Aldclyffe returned reproachfully.

  'Why?' he asked. 'Why should I praise her if she doesn't deserve it? Isay exactly what I have often admired Sterne for saying in one of hisletters--that neither reason nor Scripture asks us to speak nothing butgood of the dead. And now, madam,' he continued, after a short intervalof thought, 'I may, perhaps, hope that you will assist me, or rather notthwart me, in endeavouring to win the love of a young lady living aboutyou, one in whom I am much interested already.'

  'Cytherea!'

  'Yes, Cytherea.'

  'You have been loving Cytherea all the while?'

  'Yes.'

  Surprise was a preface to much agitation in her, which caused herto rise from her seat, and pace to the side of the room. The stewardquietly looked on and added, 'I have been loving and still love her.'

  She came close up to him, wistfully contemplating his face, one handmoving indecisively at her side.

  'And your secret marriage was, then, the true and only reason for thatbackwardness regarding the courtship of Cytherea, which, they tellme, has been the talk of the village; not your indifference to herattractions.' Her voice had a tone of conviction in it, as well as ofinquiry; but none of jealousy.

  'Yes,' he said; 'and not a dishonourable one. What held me back was justthat one thing--a sense of morality that perhaps, madam, you did notgive me credit for.' The latter words were spoken with a mien and toneof pride.

  Miss Aldclyffe preserved silence.

  'And now,' he went on, 'I may as well say a word in vindication of myconduct lately, at the risk, too, of offending you. My actual motive insubmitting to your order that I should send for my late wife, and livewith her, was not the mercenary policy of wishing to retain an officewhich brings me greater comforts than any I have enjoyed before, butthis unquenchable passion for Cytherea. Though I saw the weakness,folly, and even wickedness of it continually, it still forced me to tryto continue near her, even as the husband of another woman.'

  He waited for her to speak: she did not.

  'There's a great obstacle to my making any way in winning Miss Graye'slove,' he went on.

  'Yes, Edward Springrove,' she said quietly. 'I know it, I did once wantto see them married; they have had a slight quarrel, and it will soon bemade up again, unless--' she spoke as if she had only half attended toManston's last statement.

  'He is already engaged to be married to somebody else,' said thesteward.

  'Pooh!' said she, 'you mean to his cousin at Peakhill; that's nothing tohelp us; he's now come home to break it off.'

  'He must not break it off,' said Manston, firmly and calmly.

  His tone attracted her, startled her. Recovering herself, she saidhaughtily, 'Well, that's your affair, not mine. Though my wish has beento see her _your_ wife, I can't do anything dishonourable to bring aboutsuch a result.'

  'But it must be _made_ your affair,' he said in a hard, steady voice,looking into her eyes, as if he saw there the whole panorama of herpast.

  One of the most difficult things to portray by written words is thatpeculiar mixture of moods expressed in a woman's countenance when, afterhaving been sedulously engaged in establishing another's position, shesuddenly suspects him of undermining her own. It was thus that MissAldclyffe looked at the steward.

  'You--know--something--of me?' she faltered.

  'I know all,' he said.

  'Then curse that wife of yours! She wrote and said she wouldn't tellyou!' she burst out. 'Couldn't she keep her word for a day?' Shereflected and then said, but no more as to a stranger, 'I will notyield. I have committed no crime. I yielded to her threats in a momentof weakness, though I felt inclined to defy her at the time: it waschiefly because I was mystified as to how she got to know of it. Pooh!I will put up with threats no more. O, can _you_ threaten me?' she addedsoftly, as if she had for the moment forgotten to whom she had beenspeaking.

  'My love must be made your affair,' he repeated, without taking his eyesfrom her.

  An agony, which was not the agony of being discovered in a secret,obstructed her utterance for a time. 'How can you turn upon me so when Ischemed to get you here--schemed that you might win her till I foundyou were married. O, how can you! O!... O!' She wept; and the weeping ofsuch a nature was as harrowing as the weeping of a man.

  'Your getting me here was bad policy as to your secret--the most absurdthing in the world,' he said, not heeding her distress. 'I knew all,except the identity of the individual, long ago. Directly I found thatmy coming here was a contrived thing, and not a matter of chance, itfixed my attention upon you at once. All that was required was the merespark of life, to make of a bundle of perceptions an organic whole.'

  'Policy, how can you talk of policy? Think, do think! And how can youthreaten me when you know--you know--that I would befriend you readilywithout a threat!'

  'Yes, yes, I think you would,' he said more kindly; 'but yourindifference for so many, many years has made me doubt it.'

  'No, not indifference--'twas enforced silence. My father lived.'

  He took her hand, and held it gently.

  * * * * *

  'Now listen,' he said, more quietly and humanly, when she had becomecalmer: 'Springrove must marry the woman he's engaged to. You may makehim, but only in one way.'

  'Well: but don't speak sternly, AEneas!'

  'Do you know that his father has not been particularly thriving for thelast two or three years?'

  'I have heard something of it, once or twice, though his rents have beenpromptly paid, haven't they?'

  'O yes; and do you know the terms of the leases of the houses which areburnt?' he said, explaining to her that by those terms she might compelhim even to rebuild every house. 'The case is the clearest case offire by negligence that I have ever known, in addition to that,' hecontinued.

  'I don't want them rebuilt; you know it was intended by my father,directly they fell in, to clear the site for a new entrance to thepark?'

  'Yes, but that doesn't affect the position, which is that FarmerSpringrove is in your power to an extent which is very serious for him.'

  'I won't do it--'tis a conspiracy.'

  'Won't you for me?' he said eagerly.

  Miss Aldclyffe changed colour.

  'I don't threaten now, I implore,' he said.

  'Because you might threaten if you chose,' she mournfully answered. 'Butwhy be so--when your marriage with her was my own pet idea long beforeit was yours? What must I do?'


  'Scarcely anything: simply this. When I have seen old Mr. Springrove,which I shall do in a day or two, and told him that he will be expectedto rebuild the houses, do you see the young man. See him yourself, inorder that the proposals made may not appear to be anything more than animpulse of your own. You or he will bring up the subject of the houses.To rebuild them would be a matter of at least six hundred pounds, andhe will almost surely say that we are hard in insisting upon the extremeletter of the leases. Then tell him that scarcely can you yourselfthink of compelling an old tenant like his father to any such painfulextreme--there shall be no compulsion to build, simply a surrender ofthe leases. Then speak feelingly of his cousin, as a woman whom yourespect and love, and whose secret you have learnt to be that she isheart-sick with hope deferred. Beg him to marry her, his betrothed andyour friend, as some return for your consideration towards his father.Don't suggest too early a day for their marriage, or he will suspect youof some motive beyond womanly sympathy. Coax him to make a promise toher that she shall be his wife at the end of a twelvemonth, and get him,on assenting to this, to write to Cytherea, entirely renouncing her.'

  'She has already asked him to do that.'

  'So much the better--and telling her, too, that he is about to fulfilhis long-standing promise to marry his cousin. If you think it worthwhile, you may say Cytherea was not indisposed to think of me before sheknew I was married. I have at home a note she wrote me the first eveningI saw her, which looks rather warm, and which I could show you. Trustme, he will give her up. When he is married to Adelaide Hinton, Cythereawill be induced to marry me--perhaps before; a woman's pride is soonwounded.'

  'And hadn't I better write to Mr. Nyttleton, and inquire moreparticularly what's the law upon the houses?'

  'O no, there's no hurry for that. We know well enough how the casestands--quite well enough to talk in general terms about it. And I wantthe pressure to be put upon young Springrove before he goes away fromhome again.'

  She looked at him furtively, long, and sadly, as after speaking hebecame lost in thought, his eyes listlessly tracing the pattern of thecarpet. 'Yes, yes, she will be mine,' he whispered, careless of CythereaAldclyffe's presence. At last he raised his eyes inquiringly.

  'I will do my best, AEneas,' she answered.

  Talibus incusat. Manston then left the house, and again went towards theblackened ruins, where men were still raking and probing.

  2. FROM NOVEMBER THE TWENTY-NINTH TO DECEMBER THE SECOND

  The smouldering remnants of the Three Tranters Inn seemed to promisethat, even when the searchers should light upon the remains of theunfortunate Mrs. Manston, very little would be discoverable.

  Consisting so largely of the charcoal and ashes of hard dry oak andchestnut, intermingled with thatch, the interior of the heap was oneglowing mass of embers, which, on being stirred about, emitted sparksand flame long after it was dead and black on the outside. It waspersistently hoped, however, that some traces of the body would survivethe effect of the hot coals, and after a search pursued uninterruptedlyfor thirty hours, under the direction of Manston himself, enough wasfound to set at rest any doubts of her fate.

  The melancholy gleanings consisted of her watch, bunch of keys, a fewcoins, and two charred and blackened bones.

  Two days later the official inquiry into the cause of her death was heldat the Rising Sun Inn, before Mr. Floy, the coroner, and a jury of thechief inhabitants of the district. The little tavern--the only remainingone in the village--was crowded to excess by the neighbouring peasantryas well as their richer employers: all who could by any possibilityobtain an hour's release from their duties being present as listeners.

  The jury viewed the sad and infinitesimal remains, which were folded ina white cambric cloth, and laid in the middle of a well-finished coffinlined with white silk (by Manston's order), which stood in an adjoiningroom, the bulk of the coffin being completely filled in with carefullyarranged flowers and evergreens--also the steward's own doing.

  Abraham Brown, of Hoxton, London--an old white-headed man, without theruddiness which makes white hairs so pleasing--was sworn, and deposedthat he kept a lodging-house at an address he named. On a Saturdayevening less than a month before the fire, a lady came to him, with verylittle luggage, and took the front room on the second floor. He did notinquire where she came from, as she paid a week in advance, but she gaveher name as Mrs. Manston, referring him, if he wished for any guaranteeof her respectability, to Mr. Manston, Knapwater Park. Here she livedfor three weeks, rarely going out. She slept away from her lodgings onenight during the time. At the end of that time, on the twenty-eighth ofNovember, she left his house in a four-wheeled cab, about twelve o'clockin the day, telling the driver to take her to the Waterloo Station. Shepaid all her lodging expenses, and not having given notice the full weekprevious to her going away, offered to pay for the next, but he onlytook half. She wore a thick black veil, and grey waterproof cloak, whenshe left him, and her luggage was two boxes, one of plain deal, withblack japanned clamps, the other sewn up in canvas.

  Joseph Chinney, porter at the Carriford Road Station, deposed that hesaw Mrs. Manston, dressed as the last witness had described, get outof a second-class carriage on the night of the twenty-eighth. She stoodbeside him whilst her luggage was taken from the van. The luggage,consisting of the clamped deal box and another covered with canvas, wasplaced in the cloak-room. She seemed at a loss at finding nobody thereto meet her. She asked him for some person to accompany her, and carryher bag to Mr. Manston's house, Knapwater Park. He was just off dutyat that time, and offered to go himself. The witness here repeatedthe conversation he had had with Mrs. Manston during their walk, andtestified to having left her at the door of the Three Tranters Inn, Mr.Manston's house being closed.

  Next, Farmer Springrove was called. A murmur of surprise andcommiseration passed round the crowded room when he stepped forward.

  The events of the few preceding days had so worked upon his nervouslythoughtful nature that the blue orbits of his eyes, and the mere spot ofscarlet to which the ruddiness of his cheeks had contracted, seemed theresult of a heavy sickness. A perfect silence pervaded the assembly whenhe spoke.

  His statement was that he received Mrs. Manston at the threshold, andasked her to enter the parlour. She would not do so, and stood in thepassage whilst the maid went upstairs to see that the room was in order.The maid came down to the middle landing of the staircase, when Mrs.Manston followed her up to the room. He did not speak ten words with heraltogether.

  Afterwards, whilst he was standing at the door listening for his sonEdward's return, he saw her light extinguished, having first caughtsight of her shadow moving about the room.

  THE CORONER: 'Did her shadow appear to be that of a woman undressing?'

  SPRINGROVE: 'I cannot say, as I didn't take particular notice. It movedbackwards and forwards; she might have been undressing or merely pacingup and down the room.'

  Mrs. Fitler, the ostler's wife and chambermaid, said that she precededMrs. Manston into the room, put down the candle, and went out. Mrs.Manston scarcely spoke to her, except to ask her to bring a littlebrandy. Witness went and fetched it from the bar, brought it up, and putit on the dressing-table.

  THE CORONER: 'Had Mrs. Manston begun to undress, when you came back?'

  'No, sir; she was sitting on the bed, with everything on, as when shecame in.'

  'Did she begin to undress before you left?'

  'Not exactly before I had left; but when I had closed the door, and wason the landing I heard her boot drop on the floor, as it does sometimeswhen pulled off?'

  'Had her face appeared worn and sleepy?'

  'I cannot say as her bonnet and veil were still on when I left, for sheseemed rather shy and ashamed to be seen at the Three Tranters at all.'

  'And did you hear or see any more of her?'

  'No more, sir.'

  Mrs. Crickett, temporary servant to Mr. Manston, said that in accordancewith Mr. Manston's orders, everything had been mad
e comfortable in thehouse for Mrs. Manston's expected return on Monday night. Mr. Manstontold her that himself and Mrs. Manston would be home late, not tillbetween eleven and twelve o'clock, and that supper was to be ready. Notexpecting Mrs. Manston so early, she had gone out on a very importanterrand to Mrs. Leat the postmistress.

  Mr. Manston deposed that in looking down the columns of Bradshaw hehad mistaken the time of the train's arrival, and hence was not at thestation when she came. The broken watch produced was his wife's--he knewit by a scratch on the inner plate, and by other signs. The bunch ofkeys belonged to her: two of them fitted the locks of her two boxes.

  Mr. Flooks, agent to Lord Claydonfield at Chettlewood, said that Mr.Manston had pleaded as his excuse for leaving him rather early in theevening after their day's business had been settled, that he was goingto meet his wife at Carriford Road Station, where she was coming by thelast train that night.

  The surgeon said that the remains were those of a human being. The smallfragment seemed a portion of one of the lumbar vertebrae--the otherthe head of the os femoris--but they were both so far gone that it wasimpossible to say definitely whether they belonged to the body of a maleor female. There was no moral doubt that they were a woman's. He didnot believe that death resulted from burning by fire. He thought she wascrushed by the fall of the west gable, which being of wood, as well asthe floor, burnt after it had fallen, and consumed the body with it.

  Two or three additional witnesses gave unimportant testimony.

  The coroner summed up, and the jury without hesitation found that thedeceased Mrs. Manston came by her death accidentally through the burningof the Three Tranters Inn.

  3. DECEMBER THE SECOND. AFTERNOON

  When Mr. Springrove came from the door of the Rising Sun at the end ofthe inquiry, Manston walked by his side as far as the stile to the park,a distance of about a stone's-throw.

  'Ah, Mr. Springrove, this is a sad affair for everybody concerned.'

  'Everybody,' said the old farmer, with deep sadness, ''tis quite amisery to me. I hardly know how I shall live through each day as itbreaks. I think of the words, "In the morning thou shalt say, Would Godit were even! and at even thou shalt say, Would God it were morning! forthe fear of thine heart wherewith thou shalt fear, and for the sight ofthine eyes which thou shalt see."' His voice became broken.

  'Ah--true. I read Deuteronomy myself,' said Manston.

  'But my loss is as nothing to yours,' the farmer continued.

  'Nothing; but I can commiserate you. I should be worse than unfeelingif I didn't, although my own affliction is of so sad and solemn a kind.Indeed my own loss makes me more keenly alive to yours, different innature as it is.'

  'What sum do you think would be required of me to put the houses inplace again?'

  'I have roughly thought six or seven hundred pounds.'

  'If the letter of the law is to be acted up to,' said the old man, withmore agitation in his voice.

  'Yes, exactly.'

  'Do you know enough of Miss Aldclyffe's mind to give me an idea of howshe means to treat me?'

  'Well, I am afraid I must tell you that though I know very little of hermind as a rule, in this matter I believe she will be rather peremptory;she might share to the extent of a sixth or an eighth perhaps, inconsideration of her getting new lamps for old, but I should hardlythink more.'

  The steward stepped upon the stile, and Mr. Springrove went along theroad with a bowed head and heavy footsteps towards his niece's cottage,in which, rather against the wish of Edward, they had temporarily takenrefuge.

  The additional weight of this knowledge soon made itself perceptible.Though indoors with Edward or Adelaide nearly the whole of theafternoon, nothing more than monosyllabic replies could be drawn fromhim. Edward continually discovered him looking fixedly at the wall orfloor, quite unconscious of another's presence. At supper he ate just asusual, but quite mechanically, and with the same abstraction.

  4. DECEMBER THE THIRD

  The next morning he was in no better spirits. Afternoon came: his sonwas alarmed, and managed to draw from him an account of the conversationwith the steward.

  'Nonsense; he knows nothing about it,' said Edward vehemently. 'I'll seeMiss Aldclyffe myself. Now promise me, father, that you'll not believetill I come back, and tell you to believe it, that Miss Aldclyffe willdo any such unjust thing.'

  Edward started at once for Knapwater House. He strode rapidly along thehigh-road, till he reached a wicket where a footpath allowed of a shortcut to the mansion. Here he leant down upon the bars for a few minutes,meditating as to the best manner of opening his speech, and surveyingthe scene before him in that absent mood which takes cognizance oflittle things without being conscious of them at the time, though theyappear in the eye afterwards as vivid impressions. It was a yellow,lustrous, late autumn day, one of those days of the quarter when morningand evening seem to meet together without the intervention of a noon.The clear yellow sunlight had tempted forth Miss Aldclyffe herself, whowas at this same time taking a walk in the direction of the village.As Springrove lingered he heard behind the plantation a woman's dressbrushing along amid the prickly husks and leaves which had fallen intothe path from the boughs of the chestnut trees. In another minute shestood in front of him.

  He answered her casual greeting respectfully, and was about to requesta few minutes' conversation with her, when she directly addressed himon the subject of the fire. 'It is a sad misfortune for your father' shesaid, 'and I hear that he has lately let his insurances expire?'

  'He has, madam, and you are probably aware that either by the generalterms of his holding, or the same coupled with the origin of the fire,the disaster may involve the necessity of his rebuilding the whole rowof houses, or else of becoming a debtor to the estate, to the extent ofsome hundreds of pounds?'

  She assented. 'I have been thinking of it,' she went on, and thenrepeated in substance the words put into her mouth by the steward.Some disturbance of thought might have been fancied as taking place inSpringrove's mind during her statement, but before she had reached theend, his eyes were clear, and directed upon her.

  'I don't accept your conditions of release,' he said.

  'They are not conditions exactly.'

  'Well, whatever they are not, they are very uncalled-for remarks.'

  'Not at all--the houses have been burnt by your family's negligence.'

  'I don't refer to the houses--you have of course the best of all rightsto speak of that matter; but you, a stranger to me comparatively, haveno right at all to volunteer opinions and wishes upon a very delicatesubject, which concerns no living beings but Miss Graye, Miss Hinton,and myself.'

  Miss Aldclyffe, like a good many others in her position, had plainlynot realized that a son of her tenant and inferior could have become aneducated man, who had learnt to feel his individuality, to view societyfrom a Bohemian standpoint, far outside the farming grade in Carrifordparish, and that hence he had all a developed man's unorthodox opinionabout the subordination of classes. And fully conscious of the labyrinthinto which he had wandered between his wish to behave honourably in thedilemma of his engagement to his cousin Adelaide and the intensity ofhis love for Cytherea, Springrove was additionally sensitive to anyallusion to the case. He had spoken to Miss Aldclyffe with considerablewarmth.

  And Miss Aldclyffe was not a woman likely to be far behind any secondperson in warming to a mood of defiance. It seemed as if she wereprepared to put up with a cold refusal, but that her haughtinessresented a criticism of her conduct ending in a rebuke. By this,Manston's discreditable object, which had been made hers by compulsiononly, was now adopted by choice. She flung herself into the work.

  A fiery man in such a case would have relinquished persuasion and triedpalpable force. A fiery woman added unscrupulousness and evolved daringstrategy; and in her obstinacy, and to sustain herself as mistress, shedescended to an action the meanness of which haunted her conscience toher dying hour.

  'I don't quite see, Mr
. Springrove,' she said, 'that I am altogetherwhat you are pleased to call a stranger. I have known your family, atany rate, for a good many years, and I know Miss Graye particularlywell, and her state of mind with regard to this matter.'

  Perplexed love makes us credulous and curious as old women. Edward waswilling, he owned it to himself, to get at Cytherea's state of mind,even through so dangerous a medium.

  'A letter I received from her' he said, with assumed coldness, 'tells meclearly enough what Miss Graye's mind is.'

  'You think she still loves you? O yes, of course you do--all men arelike that.'

  'I have reason to.' He could feign no further than the first speech.

  'I should be interested in knowing what reason?' she said, withsarcastic archness.

  Edward felt he was allowing her to do, in fractional parts, what herebelled against when regarding it as a whole; but the fact that hisantagonist had the presence of a queen, and features only in the earlyevening of their beauty, was not without its influence upon a keenlyconscious man. Her bearing had charmed him into toleration, as MaryStuart's charmed the indignant Puritan visitors. He again answered herhonestly.

  'The best of reasons--the tone of her letter.'

  'Pooh, Mr. Springrove!'

  'Not at all, Miss Aldclyffe! Miss Graye desired that we should bestrangers to each other for the simple practical reason that intimacycould only make wretched complications worse, not from lack oflove--love is only suppressed.'

  'Don't you know yet, that in thus putting aside a man, a woman's pityfor the pain she inflicts gives her a kindness of tone which isoften mistaken for suppressed love?' said Miss Aldclyffe, with softinsidiousness.

  This was a translation of the ambiguity of Cytherea's tone which he hadcertainly never thought of; and he was too ingenuous not to own it.

  'I had never thought of it,' he said.

  'And don't believe it?'

  'Not unless there was some other evidence to support the view.'

  She paused a minute and then began hesitatingly--

  'My intention was--what I did not dream of owning to you--my intentionwas to try to induce you to fulfil your promise to Miss Hinton notsolely on her account and yours (though partly). I love Cytherea Grayewith all my soul, and I want to see her happy even more than I do you. Idid not mean to drag her name into the affair at all, but I am drivento say that she wrote that letter of dismissal to you--for it was amost pronounced dismissal--not on account of your engagement. She is oldenough to know that engagements can be broken as easily as they can bemade. She wrote it because she loved another man; very suddenly, and notwith any idea or hope of marrying him, but none the less deeply.'

  'Who?'

  'Mr. Manston.'

  'Good--! I can't listen to you for an instant, madam; why, she hadn'tseen him!'

  'She had; he came here the day before she wrote to you; and I couldprove to you, if it were worth while, that on that day she wentvoluntarily to his house, though not artfully or blamably; stayed fortwo hours playing and singing; that no sooner did she leave him than shewent straight home, and wrote the letter saying she should not see youagain, entirely because she had seen him and fallen desperately in lovewith him--a perfectly natural thing for a young girl to do, consideringthat he's the handsomest man in the county. Why else should she not havewritten to you before?'

  'Because I was such a--because she did not know of the connectionbetween me and my cousin until then.'

  'I must think she did.'

  'On what ground?'

  'On the strong ground of my having told her so, distinctly, the veryfirst day she came to live with me.'

  'Well, what do you seek to impress upon me after all? This--that theday Miss Graye wrote to me, saying it was better that we should part,coincided with the day she had seen a certain man--'

  'A remarkably handsome and talented man.'

  'Yes, I admit that.'

  'And that it coincided with the hour just subsequent to her seeing him.'

  'Yes, just when she had seen him.'

  'And been to his house alone with him.'

  'It is nothing.'

  'And stayed there playing and singing with him.'

  'Admit that, too,' he said; 'an accident might have caused it.'

  'And at the same instant that she wrote your dismissal she wrote aletter referring to a secret appointment with him.'

  'Never, by God, madam! never!'

  'What do you say, sir?'

  'Never.'

  She sneered.

  'There's no accounting for beliefs, and the whole history is a verytrivial matter; but I am resolved to prove that a lady's word istruthful, though upon a matter which concerns neither you nor herself.You shall learn that she _did_ write him a letter concerning anassignation--that is, if Mr. Manston still has it, and will beconsiderate enough to lend it me.'

  'But besides,' continued Edward, 'a married man to do what would cause ayoung girl to write a note of the kind you mention!'

  She flushed a little.

  'That I don't know anything about,' she stammered. 'But Cytherea didn't,of course, dream any more than I did, or others in the parish, that hewas married.'

  'Of course she didn't.'

  'And I have reason to believe that he told her of the fact directlyafterwards, that she might not compromise herself, or allow him to.It is notorious that he struggled honestly and hard against herattractions, and succeeded in hiding his feelings, if not in quenchingthem.'

  'We'll hope that he did.'

  'But circumstances are changed now.'

  'Very greatly changed,' he murmured abstractedly.

  'You must remember,' she added more suasively, 'that Miss Graye has aperfect right to do what she likes with her own--her heart, that is tosay.'

  Her descent from irritation was caused by perceiving that Edward's faithwas really disturbed by her strong assertions, and it gratified her.

  Edward's thoughts flew to his father, and the object of his interviewwith her. Tongue-fencing was utterly distasteful to him.

  'I will not trouble you by remaining longer, madam,' he remarked,gloomily; 'our conversation has ended sadly for me.'

  'Don't think so,' she said, 'and don't be mistaken. I am older than youare, many years older, and I know many things.'

  Full of miserable doubt, and bitterly regretting that he had raised hisfather's expectations by anticipations impossible of fulfilment, Edwardslowly went his way into the village, and approached his cousin's house.The farmer was at the door looking eagerly for him. He had been waitingthere for more than half-an-hour. His eye kindled quickly.

  'Well, Ted, what does she say?' he asked, in the intensely sanguinetones which fall sadly upon a listener's ear, because, antecedently,they raise pictures of inevitable disappointment for the speaker, insome direction or another.

  'Nothing for us to be alarmed at,' said Edward, with a forcedcheerfulness.

  'But must we rebuild?'

  'It seems we must, father.'

  The old man's eyes swept the horizon, then he turned to go in, withoutmaking another observation. All light seemed extinguished in him again.When Edward went in he found his father with the bureau open, unfoldingthe leases with a shaking hand, folding them up again without readingthem, then putting them in their niche only to remove them again.

  Adelaide was in the room. She said thoughtfully to Edward, as shewatched the farmer--

  'I hope it won't kill poor uncle, Edward. What should we do if anythingwere to happen to him? He is the only near relative you and I have inthe world.' It was perfectly true, and somehow Edward felt more bound upwith her after that remark.

  She continued: 'And he was only saying so hopefully the day before thefire, that he wouldn't for the world let any one else give me away toyou when we are married.'

  For the first time a conscientious doubt arose in Edward's mind as tothe justice of the course he was pursuing in resolving to refuse thealternative offered by Miss Aldclyffe. Could it be selfishness a
s wellas independence? How much he had thought of his own heart, how little hehad thought of his father's peace of mind!

  The old man did not speak again till supper-time, when he began askinghis son an endless number of hypothetical questions on what might induceMiss Aldclyffe to listen to kinder terms; speaking of her now not as anunfair woman, but as a Lachesis or Fate whose course it behoved nobodyto condemn. In his earnestness he once turned his eyes on Edward'sface: their expression was woful: the pupils were dilated and strange inaspect.

  'If she will only agree to that!' he reiterated for the hundredth time,increasing the sadness of his listeners.

  An aristocratic knocking came to the door, and Jane entered with aletter, addressed--

  'MR. EDWARD SPRINGROVE, Junior.'

  'Charles from Knapwater House brought it,' she said.

  'Miss Aldclyffe's writing,' said Mr. Springrove, before Edward hadrecognized it himself. 'Now 'tis all right; she's going to make anoffer; she doesn't want the houses there, not she; they are going tomake that the way into the park.'

  Edward opened the seal and glanced at the inside. He said, with asupreme effort of self-command--

  'It is only directed by Miss Aldclyffe, and refers to nothing connectedwith the fire. I wonder at her taking the trouble to send it to-night.'

  His father looked absently at him and turned away again. Shortlyafterwards they retired for the night. Alone in his bedroom Edwardopened and read what he had not dared to refer to in their presence.

  The envelope contained another envelope in Cytherea's handwriting,addressed to '---- Manston, Esq., Old Manor House.' Inside this was thenote she had written to the steward after her detention in his house bythe thunderstorm--

  'KNAPWATER HOUSE, September 20th.

  'I find I cannot meet you at seven o'clock by the waterfall as Ipromised. The emotion I felt made me forgetful of realities. 'C. GRAYE.'

  Miss Aldclyffe had not written a line, and, by the unvarying ruleobservable when words are not an absolute necessity, her silence seemedten times as convincing as any expression of opinion could have been.

  He then, step by step, recalled all the conversation on the subject ofCytherea's feelings that had passed between himself and Miss Aldclyffein the afternoon, and by a confusion of thought, natural enough underthe trying experience, concluded that because the lady was truthfulin her portraiture of effects, she must necessarily be right in herassumption of causes. That is, he was convinced that Cytherea--thehitherto-believed faithful Cytherea--had, at any rate, looked withsomething more than indifference upon the extremely handsome face andform of Manston.

  Did he blame her, as guilty of the impropriety of allowing herself tolove the newcomer in the face of his not being free to return her love?No; never for a moment did he doubt that all had occurred in herold, innocent, impulsive way; that her heart was gone before she knewit--before she knew anything, beyond his existence, of the man to whomit had flown. Perhaps the very note enclosed to him was the resultof first reflection. Manston he would unhesitatingly have called ascoundrel, but for one strikingly redeeming fact. It had been patentto the whole parish, and had come to Edward's own knowledge by thatindirect channel, that Manston, as a married man, conscientiouslyavoided Cytherea after those first few days of his arrival during whichher irresistibly beautiful and fatal glances had rested upon him--hisupon her.

  Taking from his coat a creased and pocket-worn envelope containingCytherea's letter to himself, Springrove opened it and read it through.He was upbraided therein, and he was dismissed. It bore the date of theletter sent to Manston, and by containing within it the phrase, 'All theday long I have been thinking,' afforded justifiable ground for assumingthat it was written subsequently to the other (and in Edward's sight farsweeter one) to the steward.

  But though he accused her of fickleness, he would not doubt thegenuineness, in its kind, of her partiality for him at Budmouth. It wasa short and shallow feeling--not perfect love:

  'Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds.'

  But it was not flirtation a feeling had been born in her and had died.It would be well for his peace of mind if his love for her could flitaway so softly, and leave so few traces behind.

  Miss Aldclyffe had shown herself desperately concerned in the wholematter by the alacrity with which she had obtained the letter fromManston, and her labours to induce himself to marry his cousin. Taken inconnection with her apparent interest in, if not love for, Cytherea, hereagerness, too, could only be accounted for on the ground that Cythereaindeed loved the steward.

  5. DECEMBER THE FOURTH

  Edward passed the night he scarcely knew how, tossing feverishly fromside to side, the blood throbbing in his temples, and singing in hisears.

  Before the day began to break he dressed himself. On going out uponthe landing he found his father's bedroom door already open. Edwardconcluded that the old man had risen softly, as was his wont, and goneout into the fields to start the labourers. But neither of the outerdoors was unfastened. He entered the front room, and found it empty.Then animated by a new idea, he went round to the little back parlour,in which the few wrecks saved from the fire were deposited, and lookedin at the door. Here, near the window, the shutters of which had beenopened half way, he saw his father leaning on the bureau, his elbowsresting on the flap, his body nearly doubled, his hands clasping hisforehead. Beside him were ghostly-looking square folds of parchment--theleases of the houses destroyed.

  His father looked up when Edward entered, and wearily spoke to the youngman as his face came into the faint light.

  'Edward, why did you get up so early?'

  'I was uneasy, and could not sleep.'

  The farmer turned again to the leases on the bureau, and seemed tobecome lost in reflection. In a minute or two, without lifting his eyes,he said--

  'This is more than we can bear, Ted--more than we can bear! Ted, thiswill kill me. Not the loss only--the sense of my neglect about theinsurance and everything. Borrow I never will. 'Tis all misery now. Godhelp us--all misery now!'

  Edward did not answer, continuing to look fixedly at the dreary daylightoutside.

  'Ted,' the farmer went on, 'this upset of be-en burnt out o' home makesme very nervous and doubtful about everything. There's this troubles mebesides--our liven here with your cousin, and fillen up her house. Itmust be very awkward for her. But she says she doesn't mind. Have yousaid anything to her lately about when you are going to marry her?'

  'Nothing at all lately.'

  'Well, perhaps you may as well, now we are so mixed in together. Youknow, no time has ever been mentioned to her at all, first or last,and I think it right that now, since she has waited so patiently and solong--you are almost called upon to say you are ready. It would simplifymatters very much, if you were to walk up to church wi' her one of thesemornings, get the thing done, and go on liven here as we are. If youdon't I must get a house all the sooner. It would lighten my mind, too,about the two little freeholds over the hill--not a morsel a-piece,divided as they were between her mother and me, but a tidy bit tiedtogether again. Just think about it, will ye, Ted?'

  He stopped from exhaustion produced by the intense concentration of hismind upon the weary subject, and looked anxiously at his son.

  'Yes, I will,' said Edward.

  'But I am going to see her of the Great House this morning,' the farmerwent on, his thoughts reverting to the old subject. 'I must know therights of the matter, the when and the where. I don't like seeing her,but I'd rather talk to her than the steward. I wonder what she'll say tome.'

  The younger man knew exactly what she would say. If his father asked herwhat he was to do, and when, she would simply refer him to Manston: hercharacter was not that of a woman who shrank from a proposition she hadonce laid down. If his father were to say to her that his son had atlast resolved to marry his cousin within the year, and had give
n her apromise to that effect, she would say, 'Mr. Springrove, the houses areburnt: we'll let them go: trouble no more about them.'

  His mind was already made up. He said calmly, 'Father, when you aretalking to Miss Aldclyffe, mention to her that I have asked Adelaide ifshe is willing to marry me next Christmas. She is interested in my unionwith Adelaide, and the news will be welcome to her.'

  'And yet she can be iron with reference to me and her property,' thefarmer murmured. 'Very well, Ted, I'll tell her.'

  6. DECEMBER THE FIFTH

  Of the many contradictory particulars constituting a woman's heart, twohad shown their vigorous contrast in Cytherea's bosom just at this time.

  It was a dark morning, the morning after old Mr. Springrove's visitto Miss Aldclyffe, which had terminated as Edward had intended. Havingrisen an hour earlier than was usual with her, Cytherea sat at thewindow of an elegant little sitting-room on the ground floor, which hadbeen appropriated to her by the kindness or whim of Miss Aldclyffe, thatshe might not be driven into that lady's presence against her will. Sheleant with her face on her hand, looking out into the gloomy grey air.A yellow glimmer from the flapping flame of the newly-lit fire flutteredon one side of her face and neck like a butterfly about to settle there,contrasting warmly with the other side of the same fair face, whichreceived from the window the faint cold morning light, so weak that hershadow from the fire had a distinct outline on the window-shutter inspite of it. There the shadow danced like a demon, blue and grim.

  The contradiction alluded to was that in spite of the decisivemood which two months earlier in the year had caused her to write aperemptory and final letter to Edward, she was now hoping for someanswer other than the only possible one a man who, as she held, did notlove her wildly, could send to such a communication. For a lover whodid love wildly, she had left one little loophole in her otherwisestraightforward epistle. Why she expected the letter on some morning ofthis particular week was, that hearing of his return to Carriford, shefondly assumed that he meant to ask for an interview before he left.Hence it was, too, that for the last few days, she had not been able tokeep in bed later than the time of the postman's arrival.

  The clock pointed to half-past seven. She saw the postman emerge frombeneath the bare boughs of the park trees, come through the wicket, divethrough the shrubbery, reappear on the lawn, stalk across it withoutreference to paths--as country postmen do--and come to the porch. Sheheard him fling the bag down on the seat, and turn away towards thevillage, without hindering himself for a single pace.

  Then the butler opened the door, took up the bag, brought it in, andcarried it up the staircase to place it on the slab by Miss Aldclyffe'sdressing-room door. The whole proceeding had been depicted by sounds.

  She had a presentiment that her letter was in the bag at last. Shethought then in diminishing pulsations of confidence, 'He asks to seeme! Perhaps he asks to see me: I hope he asks to see me.'

  A quarter to eight: Miss Aldclyffe's bell--rather earlier than usual.'She must have heard the post-bag brought,' said the maiden, as,tired of the chilly prospect outside, she turned to the fire, and drewimaginative pictures of her future therein.

  A tap came to the door, and the lady's-maid entered.

  'Miss Aldclyffe is awake,' she said; 'and she asked if you were movingyet, miss.'

  'I'll run up to her,' said Cytherea, and flitted off with the utteranceof the words. 'Very fortunate this,' she thought; 'I shall see what isin the bag this morning all the sooner.'

  She took it up from the side table, went into Miss Aldclyffe's bedroom,pulled up the blinds, and looked round upon the lady in bed, calculatingthe minutes that must elapse before she looked at her letters.

  'Well, darling, how are you? I am glad you have come in to see me,'said Miss Aldclyffe. 'You can unlock the bag this morning, child, if youlike,' she continued, yawning factitiously.

  'Strange!' Cytherea thought; 'it seems as if she knew there was likelyto be a letter for me.'

  From her bed Miss Aldclyffe watched the girl's face as she tremblinglyopened the post-bag and found there an envelope addressed to her inEdward's handwriting; one he had written the day before, after thedecision he had come to on an impartial, and on that account torturing,survey of his own, his father's, his cousin Adelaide's, and what hebelieved to be Cytherea's, position.

  The haughty mistress's soul sickened remorsefully within her when shesaw suddenly appear upon the speaking countenance of the young ladybefore her a wan desolate look of agony.

  The master-sentences of Edward's letter were these: 'You speak truly.That we never meet again is the wisest and only proper course. That Iregret the past as much as you do yourself, it is hardly necessary forme to say.'