Desperate Remedies

by Thomas Hardy

  XIII. THE EVENTS OF ONE DAY

  1. THE FIFTH OF JANUARY. BEFORE DAWN

  We pass over the intervening weeks. The time of the story is thusadvanced more than a quarter of a year.

  On the midnight preceding the morning which would make her the wife ofa man whose presence fascinated her into involuntariness of bearing,and whom in absence she almost dreaded, Cytherea lay in her little bed,vainly endeavouring to sleep.

  She had been looking back amid the years of her short though variedpast, and thinking of the threshold upon which she stood. Days andmonths had dimmed the form of Edward Springrove like the gauzes of avanishing stage-scene, but his dying voice could still be heard faintlybehind. That a soft small chord in her still vibrated true to hismemory, she would not admit: that she did not approach Manston withfeelings which could by any stretch of words be called hymeneal, shecalmly owned.

  'Why do I marry him?' she said to herself. 'Because Owen, dear Owen mybrother, wishes me to marry him. Because Mr. Manston is, and has been,uniformly kind to Owen, and to me. "Act in obedience to the dictatesof common-sense," Owen said, "and dread the sharp sting of poverty. Howmany thousands of women like you marry every year for the same reason,to secure a home, and mere ordinary, material comforts, which after allgo far to make life endurable, even if not supremely happy."

  ''Tis right, I suppose, for him to say that. O, if people only knew whata timidity and melancholy upon the subject of her future grows up in theheart of a friendless woman who is blown about like a reed shaken withthe wind, as I am, they would not call this resignation of one's selfby the name of scheming to get a husband. Scheme to marry? I'd ratherscheme to die! I know I am not pleasing my heart; I know that if I onlywere concerned, I should like risking a single future. But why should Iplease my useless self overmuch, when by doing otherwise I please thosewho are more valuable than I?'

  In the midst of desultory reflections like these, which alternatedwith surmises as to the inexplicable connection that appeared to existbetween her intended husband and Miss Aldclyffe, she heard dull noisesoutside the walls of the house, which she could not quite fancy to becaused by the wind. She seemed doomed to such disturbances at criticalperiods of her existence. 'It is strange,' she pondered, 'that this mylast night in Knapwater House should be disturbed precisely as my firstwas, no occurrence of the kind having intervened.'

  As the minutes glided by the noise increased, sounding as if some onewere beating the wall below her window with a bunch of switches. Shewould gladly have left her room and gone to stay with one of the maids,but they were without doubt all asleep.

  The only person in the house likely to be awake, or who would havebrains enough to comprehend her nervousness, was Miss Aldclyffe, butCytherea never cared to go to Miss Aldclyffe's room, though she wasalways welcome there, and was often almost compelled to go against herwill.

  The oft-repeated noise of switches grew heavier upon the wall, and wasnow intermingled with creaks, and a rattling like the rattling of dice.The wind blew stronger; there came first a snapping, then a crash, andsome portion of the mystery was revealed. It was the breaking off andfall of a branch from one of the large trees outside. The smackingagainst the wall, and the intermediate rattling, ceased from that time.

  Well, it was the tree which had caused the noises. The unexplainedmatter was that neither of the trees ever touched the walls of the houseduring the highest wind, and that trees could not rattle like a manplaying castanets or shaking dice.

  She thought, 'Is it the intention of Fate that something connected withthese noises shall influence my future as in the last case of the kind?'

  During the dilemma she fell into a troubled sleep, and dreamt that shewas being whipped with dry bones suspended on strings, which rattled atevery blow like those of a malefactor on a gibbet; that she shifted andshrank and avoided every blow, and they fell then upon the wall to whichshe was tied. She could not see the face of the executioner for hismask, but his form was like Manston's.

  'Thank Heaven!' she said, when she awoke and saw a faint lightstruggling through her blind. 'Now what were those noises?' To settlethat question seemed more to her than the event of the day.

  She pulled the blind aside and looked out. All was plain. The eveningprevious had closed in with a grey drizzle, borne upon a piercing airfrom the north, and now its effects were visible. The hoary drizzlestill continued; but the trees and shrubs were laden with icicles to anextent such as she had never before witnessed. A shoot of the diameterof a pin's head was iced as thick as her finger; all the boughs inthe park were bent almost to the earth with the immense weight of theglistening incumbrance; the walks were like a looking-glass. Many boughshad snapped beneath their burden, and lay in heaps upon the icy grass.Opposite her eye, on the nearest tree, was a fresh yellow scar, showingwhere the branch that had terrified her had been splintered from thetrunk.

  'I never could have believed it possible,' she thought, surveying thebowed-down branches, 'that trees would bend so far out of their truepositions without breaking.' By watching a twig she could see a dropcollect upon it from the hoary fog, sink to the lowest point, and therebecome coagulated as the others had done.

  'Or that I could so exactly have imitated them,' she continued. 'On thismorning I am to be married--unless this is a scheme of the great Motherto hinder a union of which she does not approve. Is it possible for mywedding to take place in the face of such weather as this?'

  2. MORNING

  Her brother Owen was staying with Manston at the Old House. Contraryto the opinion of the doctors, the wound had healed after the firstsurgical operation, and his leg was gradually acquiring strength, thoughhe could only as yet get about on crutches, or ride, or be dragged in achair.

  Miss Aldclyffe had arranged that Cytherea should be married fromKnapwater House, and not from her brother's lodgings at Budmouth, whichwas Cytherea's first idea. Owen, too, seemed to prefer the plan. Thecapricious old maid had latterly taken to the contemplation of thewedding with even greater warmth than had at first inspired her, andappeared determined to do everything in her power, consistent with herdignity, to render the adjuncts of the ceremony pleasing and complete.

  But the weather seemed in flat contradiction of the whole proceeding. Ateight o'clock the coachman crept up to the House almost upon his handsand knees, entered the kitchen, and stood with his back to the fire,panting from his exertions in pedestrianism.

  The kitchen was by far the pleasantest apartment in Knapwater Houseon such a morning as this. The vast fire was the centre of the wholesystem, like a sun, and threw its warm rays upon the figures of thedomestics, wheeling about it in true planetary style. A nervously-feebleimitation of its flicker was continually attempted by a family ofpolished metallic utensils standing in rows and groups against the wallsopposite, the whole collection of shines nearly annihilating the weakdaylight from outside. A step further in, and the nostrils were greetedby the scent of green herbs just gathered, and the eye by the plump formof the cook, wholesome, white-aproned, and floury--looking as edible asthe food she manipulated--her movements being supported and assisted byher satellites, the kitchen and scullery maids. Minute recurrent soundsprevailed--the click of the smoke-jack, the flap of the flames, and thelight touches of the women's slippers upon the stone floor.

  The coachman hemmed, spread his feet more firmly upon the hearthstone,and looked hard at a small plate in the extreme corner of the dresser.

  'No wedden this mornen--that's my opinion. In fact, there can't be,' hesaid abruptly, as if the words were the mere torso of a many-memberedthought that had existed complete in his head.

  The kitchen-maid was toasting a slice of bread at the end of a very longtoasting-fork, which she held at arm's length towards the unapproachablefire, travestying the Flanconnade in fencing.

  'Bad out of doors, isn't it?' she said, with a look of commiseration forthings in general.

  'Bad? Not even a liven soul, gentle or simple, can stand on levelground. As to getten
up hill to the church, 'tis perfect lunacy. AndI speak of foot-passengers. As to horses and carriage, 'tis murderto think of 'em. I am going to send straight as a line into thebreakfast-room, and say 'tis a closer.... Hullo--here's Clerk Crickettand John Day a-comen! Now just look at 'em and picture a wedden if youcan.'

  All eyes were turned to the window, from which the clerk and gardenerwere seen crossing the court, bowed and stooping like Bel and Nebo.

  'You'll have to go if it breaks all the horses' legs in the county,'said the cook, turning from the spectacle, knocking open the oven-doorwith the tongs, glancing critically in, and slamming it together with aclang.

  'O, O; why shall I?' asked the coachman, including in his auditory by aglance the clerk and gardener who had just entered.

  'Because Mr. Manston is in the business. Did you ever know him to giveup for weather of any kind, or for any other mortal thing in heaven orearth?'

  '----Mornen so's--such as it is!' interrupted Mr. Crickett cheerily,coming forward to the blaze and warming one hand without looking at thefire. 'Mr. Manston gie up for anything in heaven or earth, did you say?You might ha' cut it short by sayen "to Miss Aldclyffe," and leaven outheaven and earth as trifles. But it might be put off; putten off a thingisn't getten rid of a thing, if that thing is a woman. O no, no!'

  The coachman and gardener now naturally subsided into secondaries. Thecook went on rather sharply, as she dribbled milk into the exact centreof a little crater of flour in a platter--

  'It might be in this case; she's so indifferent.'

  'Dang my old sides! and so it might be. I have a bit of news--I thoughtthere was something upon my tongue; but 'tis a secret; not a word, mind,not a word. Why, Miss Hinton took a holiday yesterday.'

  'Yes?' inquired the cook, looking up with perplexed curiosity.

  'D'ye think that's all?'

  'Don't be so three-cunning--if it is all, deliver you from the evil ofraising a woman's expectations wrongfully; I'll skimmer your pate assure as you cry Amen!'

  'Well, it isn't all. When I got home last night my wife said, "MissAdelaide took a holiday this mornen," says she (my wife, that is);"walked over to Nether Mynton, met the comen man, and got married!" saysshe.'

  'Got married! what, Lord-a-mercy, did Springrove come?'

  'Springrove, no--no--Springrove's nothen to do wi' it--'twas FarmerBollens. They've been playing bo-peep for these two or three monthsseemingly. Whilst Master Teddy Springrove has been daddlen, and hawken,and spetten about having her, she's quietly left him all forsook. Servehim right. I don't blame the little woman a bit.'

  'Farmer Bollens is old enough to be her father!'

  'Ay, quite; and rich enough to be ten fathers. They say he's so richthat he has business in every bank, and measures his money in half-pintcups.'

  'Lord, I wish it was me, don't I wish 'twas me!' said the scullery-maid.

  'Yes, 'twas as neat a bit of stitching as ever I heard of,' continuedthe clerk, with a fixed eye, as if he were watching the process from adistance. 'Not a soul knew anything about it, and my wife is the onlyone in our parish who knows it yet. Miss Hinton came back from thewedden, went to Mr. Manston, puffed herself out large, and said she wasMrs. Bollens, but that if he wished, she had no objection to keep onthe house till the regular time of giving notice had expired, or till hecould get another tenant.'

  'Just like her independence,' said the cook.

  'Well, independent or no, she's Mrs. Bollens now. Ah, I shallnever forget once when I went by Farmer Bollens's garden--years agonow--years, when he was taking up ashleaf taties. A merry feller I wasat that time, a very merry feller--for 'twas before I took holy orders,and it didn't prick my conscience as 'twould now. "Farmer," says I,"little taties seem to turn out small this year, don't em?" "O no,Crickett," says he, "some be fair-sized." He's a dull man--FarmerBollens is--he always was. However, that's neither here nor there; he'sa-married to a sharp woman, and if I don't make a mistake she'll bringhim a pretty good family, gie her time.'

  'Well, it don't matter; there's a Providence in it,' said thescullery-maid. 'God A'mighty always sends bread as well as children.'

  'But 'tis the bread to one house and the children to another very often.However, I think I can see my lady Hinton's reason for chosen yesterdayto sickness-or-health-it. Your young miss, and that one, had crossed oneanother's path in regard to young Master Springrove; and I expect thatwhen Addy Hinton found Miss Graye wasn't caren to have en, she thoughtshe'd be beforehand with her old enemy in marrying somebody else too.That's maids' logic all over, and maids' malice likewise.'

  Women who are bad enough to divide against themselves under a man'spartiality are good enough to instantly unite in a common cause againsthis attack. 'I'll just tell you one thing then,' said the cook,shaking out her words to the time of a whisk she was beating eggs with.'Whatever maids' logic is and maids' malice too, if Cytherea Graye evennow knows that young Springrove is free again, she'll fling over thesteward as soon as look at him.'

  'No, no: not now,' the coachman broke in like a moderator. 'There'shonour in that maid, if ever there was in one. No Miss Hinton's tricksin her. She'll stick to Manston.'

  'Pifh!'

  'Don't let a word be said till the wedden is over, for Heaven's sake,'the clerk continued. 'Miss Aldclyffe would fairly hang and quarter me,if my news broke off that there wedden at a last minute like this.'

  'Then you had better get your wife to bolt you in the closet for an houror two, for you'll chatter it yourself to the whole boiling parish ifshe don't! 'Tis a poor womanly feller!'

  'You shouldn't ha' begun it, clerk. I knew how 'twould be,' said thegardener soothingly, in a whisper to the clerk's mangled remains.

  The clerk turned and smiled at the fire, and warmed his other hand.

  3. NOON

  The weather gave way. In half-an-hour there began a rapid thaw. Byten o'clock the roads, though still dangerous, were practicable to theextent of the half-mile required by the people of Knapwater Park. Onemass of heavy leaden cloud spread over the whole sky; the air began tofeel damp and mild out of doors, though still cold and frosty within.

  They reached the church and passed up the nave, the deep-coloured glassof the narrow windows rendering the gloom of the morning almost nightitself inside the building. Then the ceremony began. The only warmthor spirit imported into it came from the bridegroom, who retained avigorous--even Spenserian--bridal-mood throughout the morning.

  Cytherea was as firm as he at this critical moment, but as cold as theair surrounding her. The few persons forming the wedding-party wereconstrained in movement and tone, and from the nave of the church cameoccasional coughs, emitted by those who, in spite of the weather, hadassembled to see the termination of Cytherea's existence as a singlewoman. Many poor people loved her. They pitied her success, why, theycould not tell, except that it was because she seemed to stand more likea statue than Cytherea Graye.

  Yet she was prettily and carefully dressed; a strange contradiction ina man's idea of things--a saddening, perplexing contradiction. Arethere any points in which a difference of sex amounts to a difference ofnature? Then this is surely one. Not so much, as it is commonly put, inregard to the amount of consideration given, but in the conception ofthe thing considered. A man emasculated by coxcombry may spend more timeupon the arrangement of his clothes than any woman, but even then thereis no fetichism in his idea of them--they are still only a coveringhe uses for a time. But here was Cytherea, in the bottom of her heartalmost indifferent to life, yet possessing an instinct with which herheart had nothing to do, the instinct to be particularly regardful ofthose sorry trifles, her robe, her flowers, her veil, and her gloves.

  The irrevocable words were soon spoken--the indelible writing soonwritten--and they came out of the vestry. Candles had been necessaryhere to enable them to sign their names, and on their return to thechurch the light from the candles streamed from the small open door,and across the chancel to a black chestnut screen on the south side,dividing it fr
om a small chapel or chantry, erected for the soul's peaceof some Aldclyffe of the past. Through the open-work of this screencould now be seen illuminated, inside the chantry, the reclining figuresof cross-legged knights, damp and green with age, and above them ahuge classic monument, also inscribed to the Aldclyffe family, heavilysculptured in cadaverous marble.

  Leaning here--almost hanging to the monument--was Edward Springrove, orhis spirit.

  The weak daylight would never have revealed him, shaded as he was by thescreen; but the unexpected rays of candle-light in the front showed himforth in startling relief to any and all of those whose eyes wandered inthat direction. The sight was a sad one--sad beyond all description. Hiseyes were wild, their orbits leaden. His face was of a sickly paleness,his hair dry and disordered, his lips parted as if he could get nobreath. His figure was spectre-thin. His actions seemed beyond his owncontrol.

  Manston did not see him; Cytherea did. The healing effect upon her heartof a year's silence--a year and a half's separation--was undone inan instant. One of those strange revivals of passion by meresight--commoner in women than in men, and in oppressed women commonestof all--had taken place in her--so transcendently, that even to herselfit seemed more like a new creation than a revival.

  Marrying for a home--what a mockery it was!

  It may be said that the means most potent for rekindling old love in amaiden's heart are, to see her lover in laughter and good spirits in herdespite when the breach has been owing to a slight from herself; whenowing to a slight from him, to see him suffering for his own fault. Ifhe is happy in a clear conscience, she blames him; if he is miserablebecause deeply to blame, she blames herself. The latter was Cytherea'scase now.

  First, an agony of face told of the suppressed misery within her, whichpresently could be suppressed no longer. When they were coming out ofthe porch, there broke from her in a low plaintive scream the words,'He's dying--dying! O God, save us!' She began to sink down, and wouldhave fallen had not Manston caught her. The chief bridesmaid applied hervinaigrette.

  'What did she say?' inquired Manston.

  Owen was the only one to whom the words were intelligible, and he wasfar too deeply impressed, or rather alarmed, to reply. She did notfaint, and soon began to recover her self-command. Owen took advantageof the hindrance to step back to where the apparition had been seen.He was enraged with Springrove for what he considered an unwarrantableintrusion.

  But Edward was not in the chantry. As he had come, so he had gone,nobody could tell how or whither.

  4. AFTERNOON

  It might almost have been believed that a transmutation had taken placein Cytherea's idiosyncrasy, that her moral nature had fled.

  The wedding-party returned to the house. As soon as he could find anopportunity, Owen took his sister aside to speak privately with heron what had happened. The expression of her face was hard, wild, andunreal--an expression he had never seen there before, and it disturbedhim. He spoke to her severely and sadly.

  'Cytherea,' he said, 'I know the cause of this emotion of yours. Butremember this, there was no excuse for it. You should have been womanenough to control yourself. Remember whose wife you are, and don'tthink anything more of a mean-spirited fellow like Springrove; he hadno business to come there as he did. You are altogether wrong, Cytherea,and I am vexed with you more than I can say--very vexed.'

  'Say ashamed of me at once,' she bitterly answered.

  'I am ashamed of you,' he retorted angrily; 'the mood has not left youyet, then?'

  'Owen,' she said, and paused. Her lip trembled; her eye told ofsensations too deep for tears. 'No, Owen, it has not left me; and I willbe honest. I own now to you, without any disguise of words, what lastnight I did not own to myself, because I hardly knew of it. I loveEdward Springrove with all my strength, and heart, and soul. You call mea wanton for it, don't you? I don't care; I have gone beyond caring foranything!' She looked stonily into his face and made the speech calmly.

  'Well, poor Cytherea, don't talk like that!' he said, alarmed at hermanner.

  'I thought that I did not love him at all,' she went on hysterically. 'Ayear and a half had passed since we met. I could go by the gate of hisgarden without thinking of him--look at his seat in church and not care.But I saw him this morning--dying because he loves me so--I know it isthat! Can I help loving him too? No, I cannot, and I will love him, andI don't care! We have been separated somehow by some contrivance--I knowwe have. O, if I could only die!'

  He held her in his arms. 'Many a woman has gone to ruin herself,' hesaid, 'and brought those who love her into disgrace, by acting upon suchimpulses as possess you now. I have a reputation to lose as well as you.It seems that do what I will by way of remedying the stains which fellupon us, it is all doomed to be undone again.' His voice grew husky ashe made the reply.

  The right and only effective chord had been touched. Since she hadseen Edward, she had thought only of herself and him. Owen--hername--position--future--had been as if they did not exist.

  'I won't give way and become a disgrace to _you_, at any rate,' shesaid.

  'Besides, your duty to society, and those about you, requires that youshould live with (at any rate) all the appearance of a good wife, andtry to love your husband.'

  'Yes--my duty to society,' she murmured. 'But ah, Owen, it is difficultto adjust our outer and inner life with perfect honesty to all! Thoughit may be right to care more for the benefit of the many than for theindulgence of your own single self, when you consider that the many, andduty to them, only exist to you through your own existence, what can besaid? What do our own acquaintances care about us? Not much. I think ofmine. Mine will now (do they learn all the wicked frailty of my heart inthis affair) look at me, smile sickly, and condemn me. And perhaps, farin time to come, when I am dead and gone, some other's accent, or someother's song, or thought, like an old one of mine, will carry them backto what I used to say, and hurt their hearts a little that they blamedme so soon. And they will pause just for an instant, and give a sigh tome, and think, "Poor girl!" believing they do great justice to mymemory by this. But they will never, never realize that it was my singleopportunity of existence, as well as of doing my duty, which they areregarding; they will not feel that what to them is but a thought, easilyheld in those two words of pity, "Poor girl!" was a whole life to me;as full of hours, minutes, and peculiar minutes, of hopes and dreads,smiles, whisperings, tears, as theirs: that it was my world, what is tothem their world, and they in that life of mine, however much I caredfor them, only as the thought I seem to them to be. Nobody can enterinto another's nature truly, that's what is so grievous.'

  'Well, it cannot be helped,' said Owen.

  'But we must not stay here,' she continued, starting up and going. 'Weshall be missed. I'll do my best, Owen--I will, indeed.'

  It had been decided that on account of the wretched state of the roads,the newly-married pair should not drive to the station till the latesthour in the afternoon at which they could get a train to take them toSouthampton (their destination that night) by a reasonable time in theevening. They intended the next morning to cross to Havre, and thence toParis--a place Cytherea had never visited--for their wedding tour.

  The afternoon drew on. The packing was done. Cytherea was so restlessthat she could stay still nowhere. Miss Aldclyffe, who, though she tooklittle part in the day's proceedings, was, as it were, instinctivelyconscious of all their movements, put down her charge's agitation foronce as the natural result of the novel event, and Manston himself wasas indulgent as could be wished.

  At length Cytherea wandered alone into the conservatory. When in it,she thought she would run across to the hot-house in the outer garden,having in her heart a whimsical desire that she should also like totake a last look at the familiar flowers and luxuriant leaves collectedthere. She pulled on a pair of overshoes, and thither she went. Nota soul was in or around the place. The gardener was making merry onManston's and her account.

  The happiness that a generous
spirit derives from the belief that itexists in others is often greater than the primary happiness itself. Thegardener thought 'How happy they are!' and the thought made him happierthan they.

  Coming out of the forcing-house again, she was on the point of returningindoors, when a feeling that these moments of solitude would be her lastof freedom induced her to prolong them a little, and she stoodstill, unheeding the wintry aspect of the curly-leaved plants, thestraw-covered beds, and the bare fruit-trees around her. The garden, nopart of which was visible from the house, sloped down to a narrow riverat the foot, dividing it from the meadows without.

  A man was lingering along the public path on the other side of theriver; she fancied she knew the form. Her resolutions, taken in thepresence of Owen, did not fail her now. She hoped and prayed that itmight not be one who had stolen her heart away, and still kept it. Whyshould he have reappeared at all, when he had declared that he went outof her sight for ever?

  She hastily hid herself, in the lowest corner of the garden close to theriver. A large dead tree, thickly robed in ivy, had been considerablydepressed by its icy load of the morning, and hung low over the stream,which here ran slow and deep. The tree screened her from the eyes of anypasser on the other side.

  She waited timidly, and her timidity increased. She would not allowherself to see him--she would hear him pass, and then look to see if ithad been Edward.

  But, before she heard anything, she became aware of an object reflectedin the water from under the tree which hung over the river in such a waythat, though hiding the actual path, and objects upon it, it permittedtheir reflected images to pass beneath its boughs. The reflected formwas that of the man she had seen further off, but being inverted, shecould not definitely characterize him.

  He was looking at the upper windows of the House--at hers--was itEdward, indeed? If so, he was probably thinking he would like to sayone parting word. He came closer, gazed into the stream, and walked veryslowly. She was almost certain that it was Edward. She kept more safelyhidden. Conscience told her that she ought not to see him. But shesuddenly asked herself a question: 'Can it be possible that he sees myreflected image, as I see his? Of course he does!'

  He was looking at her in the water.

  She could not help herself now. She stepped forward just as he emergedfrom the other side of the tree and appeared erect before her. It wasEdward Springrove--till the inverted vision met his eye, dreaming nomore of seeing his Cytherea there than of seeing the dead themselves.

  'Cytherea!'

  'Mr. Springrove,' she returned, in a low voice, across the stream.

  He was the first to speak again.

  'Since we have met, I want to tell you something, before we become quiteas strangers to each other.'

  'No--not now--I did not mean to speak--it is not right, Edward.' Shespoke hurriedly and turned away from him, beating the air with her hand.

  'Not one common word of explanation?' he implored. 'Don't think I am badenough to try to lead you astray. Well, go--it is better.'

  Their eyes met again. She was nearly choked. O, how she longed--anddreaded--to hear his explanation!

  'What is it?' she said desperately.

  'It is that I did not come to the church this morning in order todistress you: I did not, Cytherea. It was to try to speak to you beforeyou were--married.'

  He stepped closer, and went on, 'You know what has taken place? Surelyyou do?--my cousin is married, and I am free.'

  'Married--and not to you?' Cytherea faltered, in a weak whisper.

  'Yes, she was married yesterday! A rich man had appeared, and she jiltedme. She said she never would have jilted a stranger, but that by jiltingme, she only exercised the right everybody has of snubbing their ownrelations. But that's nothing now. I came to you to ask once more if....But I was too late.'

  'But, Edward, what's that, what's that!' she cried, in an agony ofreproach. 'Why did you leave me to return to her? Why did you write methat cruel, cruel letter that nearly killed me!'

  'Cytherea! Why, you had grown to love--like--Mr. Manston, and how couldyou be anything to me--or care for me? Surely I acted naturally?'

  'O no--never! I loved you--only you--not him--always you!--tilllately.... I try to love him now.'

  'But that can't be correct! Miss Aldclyffe told me that you wanted tohear no more of me--proved it to me!' said Edward.

  'Never! she couldn't.'

  'She did, Cytherea. And she sent me a letter--a love-letter, you wroteto Mr. Manston.'

  'A love-letter I wrote?'

  'Yes, a love-letter--you could not meet him just then, you said youwere sorry, but the emotion you had felt with him made you forgetful ofrealities.'

  The strife of thought in the unhappy girl who listened to thisdistortion of her meaning could find no vent in words. And then therefollowed the slow revelation in return, bringing with it all the miseryof an explanation which comes too late. The question whether MissAldclyffe were schemer or dupe was almost passed over by Cytherea,under the immediate oppressiveness of her despair in the sense that herposition was irretrievable.

  Not so Springrove. He saw through all the cunninghalf-misrepresentations--worse than downright lies--which had just beensufficient to turn the scale both with him and with her; and from thebottom of his soul he cursed the woman and man who had brought all thisagony upon him and his Love. But he could not add more misery to thefuture of the poor child by revealing too much. The whole scheme sheshould never know.

  'I was indifferent to my own future,' Edward said, 'and was urged topromise adherence to my engagement with my cousin Adelaide by MissAldclyffe: now you are married I cannot tell you how, but it was onaccount of my father. Being forbidden to think of you, what did I careabout anything? My new thought that you still loved me was first raisedby what my father said in the letter announcing my cousin's marriage. Hesaid that although you were to be married on Old Christmas Day--thatis to-morrow--he had noticed your appearance with pity: he thoughtyou loved me still. It was enough for me--I came down by the earliestmorning train, thinking I could see you some time to-day, the day, as Ithought, before your marriage, hoping, but hardly daring to hope, thatyou might be induced to marry me. I hurried from the station when Ireached the village I saw idlers about the church, and the private gateleading to the House open. I ran into the church by the small door andsaw you come out of the vestry; I was too late. I have now told you.I was compelled to tell you. O, my lost darling, now I shall livecontent--or die content!'

  'I am to blame, Edward, I am,' she said mournfully; 'I was taught todread pauperism; my nights were made sleepless; there was continuallyreiterated in my ears till I believed it--

  '"The world and its ways have a certain worth, And to press a point where these oppose Were a simple policy."

  'But I will say nothing about who influenced--who persuaded. The actis mine, after all. Edward, I married to escape dependence for my breadupon the whim of Miss Aldclyffe, or others like her. It was clearlyrepresented to me that dependence is bearable if we have another placewhich we can call home; but to be a dependent and to have no other spotfor the heart to anchor upon--O, it is mournful and harassing!... Butthat without which all persuasion would have been as air, was added bymy miserable conviction that you were false; that did it, that turnedme! You were to be considered as nobody to me, and Mr. Manston wasinvariably kind. Well, the deed is done--I must abide by it. I shallnever let him know that I do not love him--never. If things had onlyremained as they seemed to be, if you had really forgotten me andmarried another woman, I could have borne it better. I wish I did notknow the truth as I know it now! But our life, what is it? Let us bebrave, Edward, and live out our few remaining years with dignity. Theywill not be long. O, I hope they will not be long!... Now, good-bye,good-bye!'

  'I wish I could be near and touch you once, just once,' said Springrove,in a voice which he vainly endeavoured to keep firm and clear.

  They looked at the river, then into it; a shoal of
minnows was floatingover the sandy bottom, like the black dashes on miniver; though narrow,the stream was deep, and there was no bridge.

  'Cytherea, reach out your hand that I may just touch it with mine.'

  She stepped to the brink and stretched out her hand and fingers towardshis, but not into them. The river was too wide.

  'Never mind,' said Cytherea, her voice broken by agitation, 'I must begoing. God bless and keep you, my Edward! God bless you!'

  'I must touch you, I must press your hand,' he said.

  They came near--nearer--nearer still--their fingers met. There wasa long firm clasp, so close and still that each hand could feel theother's pulse throbbing beside its own.

  'My Cytherea! my stolen pet lamb!'

  She glanced a mute farewell from her large perturbed eyes, turned, andran up the garden without looking back. All was over between them.The river flowed on as quietly and obtusely as ever, and the minnowsgathered again in their favourite spot as if they had never beendisturbed.

  Nobody indoors guessed from her countenance and bearing that her heartwas near to breaking with the intensity of the misery which gnawedthere. At these times a woman does not faint, or weep, or scream, as shewill in the moment of sudden shocks. When lanced by a mental agonyof such refined and special torture that it is indescribable by men'swords, she moves among her acquaintances much as before, and contrivesso to cast her actions in the old moulds that she is only considered tobe rather duller than usual.

  5. HALF-PAST TWO TO FIVE O'CLOCK P.M.

  Owen accompanied the newly-married couple to the railway-station, and inhis anxiety to see the last of his sister, left the brougham and stoodupon his crutches whilst the train was starting.

  When the husband and wife were about to enter the railway-carriage theysaw one of the porters looking frequently and furtively at them. He waspale, and apparently very ill.

  'Look at that poor sick man,' said Cytherea compassionately, 'surely heought not to be here.'

  'He's been very queer to-day, madam, very queer,' another porteranswered. 'He do hardly hear when he's spoken to, and d' seem giddy, oras if something was on his mind. He's been like it for this month past,but nothing so bad as he is to-day.'

  'Poor thing.'

  She could not resist an innate desire to do some just thing on this mostdeceitful and wretched day of her life. Going up to him she gave himmoney, and told him to send to the old manor-house for wine or whateverhe wanted.

  The train moved off as the trembling man was murmuring his incoherentthanks. Owen waved his hand; Cytherea smiled back to him as if it wereunknown to her that she wept all the while.

  Owen was driven back to the Old House. But he could not rest in thelonely place. His conscience began to reproach him for having forced onthe marriage of his sister with a little too much peremptoriness. Takingup his crutches he went out of doors and wandered about the muddy roadswith no object in view save that of getting rid of time.

  The clouds which had hung so low and densely during the day cleared fromthe west just now as the sun was setting, calling forth a weakly twitterfrom a few small birds. Owen crawled down the path to the waterfall, andlingered thereabout till the solitude of the place oppressed him, whenhe turned back and into the road to the village. He was sad; he said tohimself--

  'If there is ever any meaning in those heavy feelings which are calledpresentiments--and I don't believe there is--there will be in mineto-day.... Poor little Cytherea!'

  At that moment the last low rays of the sun touched the head andshoulders of a man who was approaching, and showed him up to Owen'sview. It was old Mr. Springrove. They had grown familiar with each otherby reason of Owen's visits to Knapwater during the past year. The farmerinquired how Owen's foot was progressing, and was glad to see him sonimble again.

  'How is your son?' said Owen mechanically.

  'He is at home, sitting by the fire,' said the farmer, in a sad voice.'This morning he slipped indoors from God knows where, and there he sitsand mopes, and thinks, and thinks, and presses his head so hard, that Ican't help feeling for him.'

  'Is he married?' said Owen. Cytherea had feared to tell him of theinterview in the garden.

  'No. I can't quite understand how the matter rests.... Ah! Edward, too,who started with such promise; that he should now have become such acareless fellow--not a month in one place. There, Mr. Graye, I know whatit is mainly owing to. If it hadn't been for that heart affair, he mighthave done--but the less said about him the better. I don't know what weshould have done if Miss Aldclyffe had insisted upon the conditions ofthe leases. Your brother-in-law, the steward, had a hand in makingit light for us, I know, and I heartily thank him for it.' He ceasedspeaking, and looked round at the sky.

  'Have you heard o' what's happened?' he said suddenly; 'I was justcoming out to learn about it.'

  'I haven't heard of anything.'

  'It is something very serious, though I don't know what. All I know iswhat I heard a man call out bynow--that it very much concerns somebodywho lives in the parish.'

  It seems singular enough, even to minds who have no dim beliefs inadumbration and presentiment, that at that moment not the shadow of athought crossed Owen's mind that the somebody whom the matter concernedmight be himself, or any belonging to him. The event about to transpirewas as portentous to the woman whose welfare was more dear to him thanhis own, as any, short of death itself, could possibly be; and everafterwards, when he considered the effect of the knowledge the nexthalf-hour conveyed to his brain, even his practical good sense could notrefrain from wonder that he should have walked toward the village afterhearing those words of the farmer, in so leisurely and unconcerned away. 'How unutterably mean must my intelligence have appeared to the eyeof a foreseeing God,' he frequently said in after-time. 'Columbus on theeve of his discovery of a world was not so contemptibly unaware.'

  After a few additional words of common-place the farmer left him, and,as has been said, Owen proceeded slowly and indifferently towards thevillage.

  The labouring men had just left work, and passed the park gate, whichopened into the street as Owen came down towards it. They went along ina drift, earnestly talking, and were finally about to turn in at theirrespective doorways. But upon seeing him they looked significantly atone another, and paused. He came into the road, on that side of thevillage-green which was opposite the row of cottages, and turned roundto the right. When Owen turned, all eyes turned; one or two men wenthurriedly indoors, and afterwards appeared at the doorstep with theirwives, who also contemplated him, talking as they looked. They seemeduncertain how to act in some matter.

  'If they want me, surely they will call me,' he thought, wonderingmore and more. He could no longer doubt that he was connected with thesubject of their discourse.

  The first who approached him was a boy.

  'What has occurred?' said Owen.

  'O, a man ha' got crazy-religious, and sent for the pa'son.'

  'Is that all?'

  'Yes, sir. He wished he was dead, he said, and he's almost out of hismind wi' wishen it so much. That was before Mr. Raunham came.'

  'Who is he?' said Owen.

  'Joseph Chinney, one of the railway-porters; he used to benight-porter.'

  'Ah--the man who was ill this afternoon by the way, he was told to cometo the Old House for something, but he hasn't been. But has anythingelse happened--anything that concerns the wedding to-day?'

  'No, sir.'

  Concluding that the connection which had seemed to be traced betweenhimself and the event must in some way have arisen from Cytherea'sfriendliness towards the man, Owen turned about and went homewards ina much quieter frame of mind--yet scarcely satisfied with the solution.The route he had chosen led through the dairy-yard, and he opened thegate.

  Five minutes before this point of time, Edward Springrove was lookingover one of his father's fields at an outlying hamlet of three or fourcottages some mile and a half distant. A turnpike-gate was close by thegate of the field.
/>
  The carrier to Casterbridge came up as Edward stepped into the road, andjumped down from the van to pay toll. He recognized Springrove. 'This isa pretty set-to in your place, sir,' he said. 'You don't know about it,I suppose?'

  'What?' said Springrove.

  The carrier paid his dues, came up to Edward, and spoke ten words in aconfidential whisper: then sprang upon the shafts of his vehicle, gave aclinching nod of significance to Springrove, and rattled away.

  Edward turned pale with the intelligence. His first thought was, 'Bringher home!'

  The next--did Owen Graye know what had been discovered? He probablydid by that time, but no risks of probability must be run by a womanhe loved dearer than all the world besides. He would at any rate makeperfectly sure that her brother was in possession of the knowledge, bytelling it him with his own lips.

  Off he ran in the direction of the old manor-house.

  The path was across arable land, and was ploughed up with the rest ofthe field every autumn, after which it was trodden out afresh. The thawhad so loosened the soft earth, that lumps of stiff mud were liftedby his feet at every leap he took, and flung against him by his rapidmotion, as it were doggedly impeding him, and increasing tenfold thecustomary effort of running,

  But he ran on--uphill, and downhill, the same pace alike--like theshadow of a cloud. His nearest direction, too, like Owen's, was throughthe dairy-barton, and as Owen entered it he saw the figure of Edwardrapidly descending the opposite hill, at a distance of two or threehundred yards. Owen advanced amid the cows.

  The dairyman, who had hitherto been talking loudly on some absorbingsubject to the maids and men milking around him, turned his face towardsthe head of the cow when Owen passed, and ceased speaking.

  Owen approached him and said--

  'A singular thing has happened, I hear. The man is not insane, Isuppose?'

  'Not he--he's sensible enough,' said the dairyman, and paused. He was aman noisy with his associates--stolid and taciturn with strangers.

  'Is it true that he is Chinney, the railway-porter?'

  'That's the man, sir.' The maids and men sitting under the cows were allattentively listening to this discourse, milking irregularly, and softlydirecting the jets against the sides of the pail.

  Owen could contain himself no longer, much as his mind dreaded anythingof the nature of ridicule. 'The people all seem to look at me, as ifsomething seriously concerned me; is it this stupid matter, or what isit?'

  'Surely, sir, you know better than anybody else if such a strange thingconcerns you.'

  'What strange thing?'

  'Don't you know! His confessing to Parson Raunham.'

  'What did he confess? Tell me.'

  'If you really ha'n't heard, 'tis this. He was as usual on duty at thestation on the night of the fire last year, otherwise he wouldn't ha'known it.'

  'Known what? For God's sake tell, man!'

  But at this instant the two opposite gates of the dairy-yard, one on theeast, the other on the west side, slammed almost simultaneously.

  The rector from one, Springrove from the other, came striding across thebarton.

  Edward was nearest, and spoke first. He said in a low voice: 'Yoursister is not legally married! His first wife is still living! How itcomes out I don't know!'

  'O, here you are at last, Mr. Graye, thank Heaven!' said the rectorbreathlessly. 'I have been to the Old House, and then to MissAldclyffe's looking for you--something very extraordinary.' He beckonedto Owen, afterwards included Springrove in his glance, and the threestepped aside together.

  'A porter at the station. He was a curious nervous man. He had been in astrange state all day, but he wouldn't go home. Your sister was kindto him, it seems, this afternoon. When she and her husband had gone, hewent on with his work, shifting luggage-vans. Well, he got in the way,as if he were quite lost to what was going on, and they sent him home atlast. Then he wished to see me. I went directly. There was somethingon his mind, he said, and told it. About the time when the fire of lastNovember twelvemonth was got under, whilst he was by himself in theporter's room, almost asleep, somebody came to the station and tried toopen the door. He went out and found the person to be the lady he hadaccompanied to Carriford earlier in the evening, Mrs. Manston. Sheasked, when would be another train to London? The first the nextmorning, he told her, was at a quarter-past six o'clock from Budmouth,but that it was express, and didn't stop at Carriford Road--it didn'tstop till it got to Anglebury. "How far is it to Anglebury?" she said.He told her, and she thanked him, and went away up the line. In a shorttime she ran back and took out her purse. "Don't on any account saya word in the village or anywhere that I have been here, or a singlebreath about me--I'm ashamed ever to have come." He promised; she tookout two sovereigns. "Swear it on the Testament in the waiting-room," shesaid, "and I'll pay you these." He got the book, took an oath upon it,received the money, and she left him. He was off duty at half-pastfive. He has kept silence all through the intervening time till now, butlately the knowledge he possessed weighed heavily upon his conscienceand weak mind. Yet the nearer came the wedding-day, the more he fearedto tell. The actual marriage filled him with remorse. He says yoursister's kindness afterwards was like a knife going through his heart.He thought he had ruined her.'

  'But whatever can be done? Why didn't he speak sooner?' cried Owen.

  'He actually called at my house twice yesterday,' the rector continued,'resolved, it seems, to unburden his mind. I was out both times--heleft no message, and, they say, he looked relieved that his object wasdefeated. Then he says he resolved to come to you at the Old House lastnight--started, reached the door, and dreaded to knock--and then wenthome again.'

  'Here will be a tale for the newsmongers of the county,' said Owenbitterly. 'The idea of his not opening his mouth sooner--the criminalityof the thing!'

  'Ah, that's the inconsistency of a weak nature. But now that it is putto us in this way, how much more probable it seems that she should haveescaped than have been burnt--'

  'You will, of course, go straight to Mr. Manston, and ask him what itall means?' Edward interrupted.

  'Of course I shall! Manston has no right to carry off my sister unlesshe's her husband,' said Owen. 'I shall go and separate them.'

  'Certainly you will,' said the rector.

  'Where's the man?'

  'In his cottage.'

  ''Tis no use going to him, either. I must go off at once and overtakethem--lay the case before Manston, and ask him for additional andcertain proofs of his first wife's death. An up-train passes soon, Ithink.'

  'Where have they gone?' said Edward.

  'To Paris--as far as Southampton this afternoon, to proceed to-morrowmorning.'

  'Where in Southampton?'

  'I really don't know--some hotel. I only have their Paris address. But Ishall find them by making a few inquiries.'

  The rector had in the meantime been taking out his pocket-book, and nowopened it at the first page, whereon it was his custom every month togum a small railway time-table--cut from the local newspaper.

  'The afternoon express is just gone,' he said, holding open the page,'and the next train to Southampton passes at ten minutes to six o'clock.Now it wants--let me see--five-and-forty minutes to that time. Mr.Graye, my advice is that you come with me to the porter's cottage, whereI will shortly write out the substance of what he has said, and gethim to sign it. You will then have far better grounds for interferingbetween Mr. and Mrs. Manston than if you went to them with a merehearsay story.'

  The suggestion seemed a good one. 'Yes, there will be time before thetrain starts,' said Owen.

  Edward had been musing restlessly.

  'Let me go to Southampton in your place, on account of your lameness?'he said suddenly to Graye.

  'I am much obliged to you, but I think I can scarcely accept the offer,'returned Owen coldly. 'Mr. Manston is an honourable man, and I had muchbetter see him myself.'

  'There is no doubt,' said Mr. Raunham, 'that th
e death of his wife wasfully believed in by himself.'

  'None whatever,' said Owen; 'and the news must be broken to him, and thequestion of other proofs asked, in a friendly way. It would not do forMr. Springrove to appear in the case at all.' He still spoke rathercoldly; the recollection of the attachment between his sister and Edwardwas not a pleasant one to him.

  'You will never find them,' said Edward. 'You have never been toSouthampton, and I know every house there.'

  'That makes little difference,' said the rector; 'he will have a cab.Certainly Mr. Graye is the proper man to go on the errand.'

  'Stay; I'll telegraph to ask them to meet me when I arrive at theterminus,' said Owen; 'that is, if their train has not already arrived.'

  Mr. Raunham pulled out his pocket-book again. 'The two-thirty trainreached Southampton a quarter of an hour ago,' he said.

  It was too late to catch them at the station. Nevertheless, the rectorsuggested that it would be worth while to direct a message to 'all therespectable hotels in Southampton,' on the chance of its finding them,and thus saving a deal of personal labour to Owen in searching about theplace.

  'I'll go and telegraph, whilst you return to the man,' said Edward--anoffer which was accepted. Graye and the rector then turned off in thedirection of the porter's cottage.

  Edward, to despatch the message at once, hurriedly followed the roadtowards the station, still restlessly thinking. All Owen's proceedingswere based on the assumption, natural under the circumstances, ofManston's good faith, and that he would readily acquiesce in anyarrangement which should clear up the mystery. 'But,' thought Edward,'suppose--and Heaven forgive me, I cannot help supposing it--thatManston is not that honourable man, what will a young and inexperiencedfellow like Owen do? Will he not be hoodwinked by some specious storyor another, framed to last till Manston gets tired of poor Cytherea?And then the disclosure of the truth will ruin and blacken both theirfutures irremediably.'

  However, he proceeded to execute his commission. This he put in the formof a simple request from Owen to Manston, that Manston would come tothe Southampton platform, and wait for Owen's arrival, as he valued hisreputation. The message was directed as the rector had suggested, Edwardguaranteeing to the clerk who sent it off that every expense connectedwith the search would be paid.

  No sooner had the telegram been despatched than his heart sank withinhim at the want of foresight shown in sending it. Had Manston, all thetime, a knowledge that his first wife lived, the telegram would be aforewarning which might enable him to defeat Owen still more signally.

  Whilst the machine was still giving off its multitudinous series ofraps, Edward heard a powerful rush under the shed outside, followed bya long sonorous creak. It was a train of some sort, stealing softly intothe station, and it was an up-train. There was the ring of a bell. Itwas certainly a passenger train.

  Yet the booking-office window was closed.

  'Ho, ho, John, seventeen minutes after time and only three stations upthe line. The incline again?' The voice was the stationmaster's, and thereply seemed to come from the guard.

  'Yes, the other side of the cutting. The thaw has made it all in aperfect cloud of fog, and the rails are as slippery as glass. We had tobring them through the cutting at twice.'

  'Anybody else for the four-forty-five express?' the voice continued. Thefew passengers, having crossed over to the other side long before thistime, had taken their places at once.

  A conviction suddenly broke in upon Edward's mind; then a wishoverwhelmed him. The conviction--as startling as it was sudden--was thatManston was a villain, who at some earlier time had discovered thathis wife lived, and had bribed her to keep out of sight, that he mightpossess Cytherea. The wish was--to proceed at once by this very trainthat was starting, find Manston before he would expect from the wordsof the telegram (if he got it) that anybody from Carriford could bewith him--charge him boldly with the crime, and trust to his consequentconfusion (if he were guilty) for a solution of the extraordinaryriddle, and the release of Cytherea!

  The ticket-office had been locked up at the expiration of the time atwhich the train was due. Rushing out as the guard blew his whistle,Edward opened the door of a carriage and leapt in. The train movedalong, and he was soon out of sight.

  Springrove had long since passed that peculiar line which lies acrossthe course of falling in love--if, indeed, it may not be called theinitial itself of the complete passion--a longing to cherish; when thewoman is shifted in a man's mind from the region of mere admiration tothe region of warm fellowship. At this assumption of her nature, shechanges to him in tone, hue, and expression. All about the loved onethat said 'She' before, says 'We' now. Eyes that were to be subduedbecome eyes to be feared for: a brain that was to be probed by cynicismbecomes a brain that is to be tenderly assisted; feet that were tobe tested in the dance become feet that are not to be distressed; theonce-criticized accent, manner, and dress, become the clients of aspecial pleader.

  6. FIVE TO EIGHT O'CLOCK P.M.

  Now that he was fairly on the track, and had begun to cool down, Edwardremembered that he had nothing to show--no legal authority whatever toquestion Manston or interfere between him and Cytherea as husbandand wife. He now saw the wisdom of the rector in obtaining a signedconfession from the porter. The document would not be a death-bedconfession--perhaps not worth anything legally--but it would be held byOwen; and he alone, as Cytherea's natural guardian, could separate themon the mere ground of an unproved probability, or what might perhaps becalled the hallucination of an idiot. Edward himself, however, was asfirmly convinced as the rector had been of the truth of the man's story,and paced backward and forward the solitary compartment as the trainwound through the dark heathery plains, the mazy woods, and moaningcoppices, as resolved as ever to pounce on Manston, and charge him withthe crime during the critical interval between the reception of thetelegram and the hour at which Owen's train would arrive--trusting tocircumstances for what he should say and do afterwards, but making uphis mind to be a ready second to Owen in any emergency that might arise.

  At thirty-three minutes past seven he stood on the platform of thestation at Southampton--a clear hour before the train containing Owencould possibly arrive.

  Making a few inquiries here, but too impatient to pursue hisinvestigation carefully and inductively, he went into the town.

  At the expiration of another half-hour he had visited seven hotels andinns, large and small, asking the same questions at each, and alwaysreceiving the same reply--nobody of that name, or answering to thatdescription, had been there. A boy from the telegraph-office had called,asking for the same persons, if they recollected rightly.

  He reflected awhile, struck again by a painful thought that they mightpossibly have decided to cross the Channel by the night-boat. Then hehastened off to another quarter of the town to pursue his inquiriesamong hotels of the more old-fashioned and quiet class. His stained andweary appearance obtained for him but a modicum of civility, wherever hewent, which made his task yet more difficult. He called at three severalhouses in this neighbourhood, with the same result as before. He enteredthe door of the fourth house whilst the clock of the nearest church wasstriking eight.

  'Have a tall gentleman named Manston, and a young wife arrived here thisevening?' he asked again, in words which had grown odd to his ears fromvery familiarity.

  'A new-married couple, did you say?'

  'They are, though I didn't say so.'

  'They have taken a sitting-room and bedroom, number thirteen.'

  'Are they indoors?'

  'I don't know. Eliza!'

  'Yes, m'm.'

  'See if number thirteen is in--that gentleman and his wife.'

  'Yes, m'm.'

  'Has any telegram come for them?' said Edward, when the maid had gone onher errand.

  'No--nothing that I know of.'

  'Somebody did come and ask if a Mr. and Mrs. Masters, or some suchname, were here this evening,' said another voice from the back of theb
ar-parlour.

  'And did they get the message?'

  'Of course they did not--they were not here--they didn't come tillhalf-an-hour after that. The man who made inquiries left no message. Itold them when they came that they, or a name something like theirs, hadbeen asked for, but they didn't seem to understand why it should be, andso the matter dropped.'

  The chambermaid came back. 'The gentleman is not in, but the lady is.Who shall I say?'

  'Nobody,' said Edward. For it now became necessary to reflect upon hismethod of proceeding. His object in finding their whereabouts--apartfrom the wish to assist Owen--had been to see Manston, ask him flatlyfor an explanation, and confirm the request of the message in thepresence of Cytherea--so as to prevent the possibility of the steward'spalming off a story upon Cytherea, or eluding her brother when he came.But here were two important modifications of the expected condition ofaffairs. The telegram had not been received, and Cytherea was in thehouse alone.

  He hesitated as to the propriety of intruding upon her in Manston'sabsence. Besides, the women at the bottom of the stairs would seehim--his intrusion would seem odd--and Manston might return atany moment. He certainly might call, and wait for Manston with theaccusation upon his tongue, as he had intended. But it was a doubtfulcourse. That idea had been based upon the assumption that Cytherea wasnot married. If the first wife were really dead after all--and hefelt sick at the thought--Cytherea as the steward's wife might inafter-years--perhaps, at once--be subjected to indignity and cruelty onaccount of an old lover's interference now.

  Yes, perhaps the announcement would come most properly and safely forher from her brother Owen, the time of whose arrival had almost expired.

  But, on turning round, he saw that the staircase and passage were quitedeserted. He and his errand had as completely died from the minds ofthe attendants as if they had never been. There was absolutely nothingbetween him and Cytherea's presence. Reason was powerless now; he mustsee her--right or wrong, fair or unfair to Manston--offensive to herbrother or no. His lips must be the first to tell the alarming story toher. Who loved her as he! He went back lightly through the hall, up thestairs, two at a time, and followed the corridor till he came to thedoor numbered thirteen.

  He knocked softly: nobody answered.

  There was no time to lose if he would speak to Cytherea before Manstoncame. He turned the handle of the door and looked in. The lamp on thetable burned low, and showed writing materials open beside it; the chieflight came from the fire, the direct rays of which were obscured by asweet familiar outline of head and shoulders--still as precious to himas ever.

  7. A QUARTER-PAST EIGHT O'CLOCK P.M.

  There is an attitude--approximatively called pensive--in which the soulof a human being, and especially of a woman, dominates outwardly andexpresses its presence so strongly, that the intangible essence seemsmore apparent than the body itself. This was Cytherea's expression now.What old days and sunny eves at Budmouth Bay was she picturing? Herreverie had caused her not to notice his knock.

  'Cytherea!' he said softly.

  She let drop her hand, and turned her head, evidently thinking that hervisitor could be no other than Manston, yet puzzled at the voice.

  There was no preface on Springrove's tongue; he forgot hisposition--hers--that he had come to ask quietly if Manston had otherproofs of being a widower--everything--and jumped to a conclusion.

  'You are not his wife, Cytherea--come away, he has a wife living!' hecried in an agitated whisper. 'Owen will be here directly.'

  She started up, recognized the tidings first, the bearer of themafterwards. 'Not his wife? O, what is it--what--who is living?' Sheawoke by degrees. 'What must I do? Edward, it is you! Why did you come?Where is Owen?'

  'What has Manston shown you in proof of the death of his other wife?Tell me quick.'

  'Nothing--we have never spoken of the subject. Where is my brother Owen?I want him, I want him!'

  'He is coming by-and-by. Come to the station to meet him--do,' imploredSpringrove. 'If Mr. Manston comes, he will keep you from me: I amnobody,' he added bitterly, feeling the reproach her words had faintlyshadowed forth.

  'Mr. Manston is only gone out to post a letter he has just written,' shesaid, and without being distinctly cognizant of the action, she wildlylooked for her bonnet and cloak, and began putting them on, but in theact of fastening them uttered a spasmodic cry.

  'No, I'll not go out with you,' she said, flinging the articlesdown again. Running to the door she flitted along the passage, anddownstairs.

  'Give me a private room--quite private,' she said breathlessly to someone below.

  'Number twelve is a single room, madam, and unoccupied,' said sometongue in astonishment.

  Without waiting for any person to show her into it, Cytherea hurriedupstairs again, brushed through the corridor, entered the roomspecified, and closed the door. Edward heard her sob out--

  'Nobody but Owen shall speak to me--nobody!'

  'He will be here directly,' said Springrove, close against the panel,and then went towards the stairs. He had seen her; it was enough.

  He descended, stepped into the street, and hastened to meet Owen at therailway-station.

  As for the poor maiden who had received the news, she knew not what tothink. She listened till the echo of Edward's footsteps had died away,then bowed her face upon the bed. Her sudden impulse had been to escapefrom sight. Her weariness after the unwonted strain, mental and bodily,which had been put upon her by the scenes she had passed through duringthe long day, rendered her much more timid and shaken by her positionthan she would naturally have been. She thought and thought of thatsingle fact which had been told her--that the first Mrs. Manston wasstill living--till her brain seemed ready to burst its confinement withexcess of throbbing. It was only natural that she should, by degrees,be unable to separate the discovery, which was matter of fact, from thesuspicion of treachery on her husband's part, which was only matter ofinference. And thus there arose in her a personal fear of him.

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

  Almost delirious with this idea, she ran and locked the door to preventall possibility of her intentions being nullified, or a look or wordbeing 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 cameto the head of the bed, where she searched for the bell-rope and gave ita pull. Her summons was speedily answered by the landlady herself,whose curiosity to know the meaning of these strange proceedings knew nobounds. The landlady attempted to turn the handle of the door. Cythereakept the door locked. 'Please tell Mr. Manston when he comes that I amill,' 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 thesitting-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 tobe 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 thechambermaid, 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 doctoreither, unless he sees you.'

  Her voice had trembled more and more at each answer she gave, butnothing 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 upand down. She thought, 'Suppose he insists upon seeing me--he probablymay--and will burst open the door!' This notion increased, and she sankinto a corner in a half-somnolent state, but with ears alive to theslightest sound. Reason could not overthrow the delirious fancy thatoutside her door stood Manston and all the people in the hotel, waitingto laugh her to scorn.

  9. HALF-PAST EIGHT TO ELEVEN P.M.

  In the meantime, Springrove was pacing up and down the arrival platformof the railway-station. Half-past eight o'clock--the time at whichOwen'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 wassweeping 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 tosee their friends. The trains have been like it ever since ChristmasEve, and will be for another week yet.'

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

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

  'In five-and-thirty minutes. She's now at L----. They have extrapassengers, 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 casuallyglanced round upon the nearly deserted platform, and was hurrying to theoutlet, when his eyes fell upon Edward. At sight of his friend he wasquite 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. Suchwas the concentration of his mind, that not till many minutes after didhe think of inquiring how Springrove had contrived to be there beforehim.

  10. ELEVEN O'CLOCK P.M.

  On their arrival at the door of the hotel, it was arranged betweenSpringrove and Graye that the latter only should enter, Edward waitingoutside. Owen had remembered continually what his friend had frequentlyoverlooked, that there was yet a possibility of his sister beingManston's wife, and the recollection taught him to avoid any rashness inhis proceedings which might lead to bitterness hereafter.

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

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

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

  He took from his pocket the confession of Chinney the porter, as hastilywritten out by the vicar, and read it aloud. The aspects of Manston'sface whilst he listened to the opening words were strange, dark, andmysterious enough to have justified suspicions that no deceit couldbe too complicated for the possessor of such impulses, had there notoverridden them all, as the reading went on, a new and irrepressibleexpression--one unmistakably honest. It was that of unqualifiedamazement in the steward's mind at the news he heard. Owen looked upand saw it. The sight only confirmed him in the belief he had heldthroughout, 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 havefeared by his ghastly look at first, and now have ceased to fear, it wasquite futile to conjecture.

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

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

  'Certainly, I know no more than you and others know--it was a gratuitousunpleasantness in you to say you did not doubt me. Why should you, oranybody, 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 inscrutablemeans, 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 rustlingof clothes, soft footsteps, and a voice saying from the inside, 'Is itreally 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 fromthe 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 thedarkness of the background, as the light fell upon them. She leapt up toOwen in one bound, her small taper fingers extended like the leaves of alupine. Then she clasped her cold and trembling hands round his neck andshivered.

  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 twocloser, '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 propercourse to adopt.'

  'Never mind the law--let me go with Owen!' cried Cytherea, still holdingon 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 wantsto.'

  It was getting on for twelve o'clock, but the proprietor of the hotelhad 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 lookedover the banisters, and saw him standing in the hall. It struck Grayethat the wisest course would be to take the landlord to a certain extentinto their confidence, appeal to his honour as a gentleman, and so on,in order to acquire the information he wanted, and also to prevent theepisode of the evening from becoming a public piece of news. He calledthe landlord up to where they stood, and told him the main facts of thestory.

  The landlord was fortunately a quiet, prejudiced man, and a meditativesmoker.

  'I know the very man you want to see--the very man,' he said, lookingat the general features of the candle-flame. 'Sharp as a needle, and notover-rich. Timms will put you all straight in no time--trust Timms forthat.'

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

  'Never mind that--Timms knows me, I know him. He'll oblige me as apersonal favour. Wait here a bit. Perhaps, too, he's up at some party oranother--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 threepersons most concerned entering the room, and standing motionless,awkward, and silent in the midst of it. Cytherea pictured to herself thelong weary minutes she would have to stand there, whilst a sleepy mancould be prepared for consultation, till the constraint between themseemed unendurable to her--she could never last out the time. Owen wasannoyed that Manston had not quietly arranged with him at once; Manstonat Owen's homeliness of idea in proposing to send for an attorney, as ifhe would be a touchstone of infallible proof.

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

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

  'As far as I can see,' said the lawyer, yawning, and turning his visioninward by main force, 'it is quite a matter for private arrangementbetween the parties, whoever the parties are--at least at present. Ispeak more as a father than as a lawyer, it is true, but, let the younglady stay with her father, or guardian, safe out of shame's way, untilthe mystery is sifted, whatever the mystery is. Should the evidenceprove 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 hisself-possession and common-sense; 'let it all be settled by herself.'Turning to Cytherea he whispered so softly that Owen did not hear thewords--

  'Do you wish to go back with your brother, dearest, and leave me heremiserable, 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: 'Andremember this, Cytherea, I am as innocent of deception in this thing asyou are yourself. Do you believe me?'

  'I do,' she said.

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

  'I believe you,' she said.

  'And now, good-evening,' he continued, opening the door and politelyintimating to the three men standing by that there was no furthernecessity for their remaining in his room. 'In three days I shall claimher.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  'Poor Springrove--I think we have served him rather badly,' he said toCytherea, 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 triflingcoldness of her answer to him would have been noticed by no man whowas only a friend. But, in entertaining that sweet thought, she hadforgotten herself, and her position for the instant.

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

  Then she thought of the misrepresentation and scandal that wouldensue if she were no wife. One cause for thankfulness accompanied thereflection Edward knew the truth.

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

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