by Thomas Hardy
XVI. THE EVENTS OF ONE WEEK
1. MARCH THE SIXTH
The next morning the opening move of the game was made. Cytherea, undercover of a thick veil, hired a conveyance and drove to within a mile orso of Carriford. It was with a renewed sense of depression that shesaw again the objects which had become familiar to her eye during hersojourn under Miss Aldclyffe's roof--the outline of the hills, themeadow streams, the old park trees. She hastened by a lonely path to therectory-house, and asked if Mr. Raunham was at home.
Now the rector, though a solitary bachelor, was as gallant and courteousto womankind as an ancient Iberian; and, moreover, he was Cytherea'sfriend in particular, to an extent far greater than she had eversurmised. Rarely visiting his relative, Miss Aldclyffe, except on parishmatters, more rarely still being called upon by Miss Aldclyffe, Cythereahad learnt very little of him whilst she lived at Knapwater. Therelationship was on the impecunious paternal side, and for this branchof her family the lady of the estate had never evinced much sympathy. Inlooking back upon our line of descent it is an instinct with us to feelthat all our vitality was drawn from the richer party to any unequalmarriage in the chain.
Since the death of the old captain, the rector's bearing in KnapwaterHouse had been almost that of a stranger, a circumstance whichhe himself was the last man in the world to regret. This politeindifference was so frigid on both sides that the rector did not concernhimself to preach at her, which was a great deal in a rector; and shedid not take the trouble to think his sermons poor stuff, which in acynical woman was a great deal more.
Though barely fifty years of age, his hair was as white as snow,contrasting strangely with the redness of his skin, which was as freshand healthy as a lad's. Cytherea's bright eyes, mutely and demurelyglancing up at him Sunday after Sunday, had been the means of drivingaway many of the saturnine humours that creep into an empty heart duringthe hours of a solitary life; in this case, however, to supplant them,when she left his parish, by those others of a more aching naturewhich accompany an over-full one. In short, he had been on the vergeof feeling towards her that passion to which his dignified self-respectwould not give its true name, even in the privacy of his own thought.
He received her kindly; but she was not disposed to be frank with him.He saw her wish to be reserved, and with genuine good taste and goodnature made no comment whatever upon her request to be allowed to seethe Chronicle for the year before the last. He placed the papers beforeher on his study table, with a timidity as great as her own, and thenleft her entirely to herself.
She turned them over till she came to the first heading connectedwith the subject of her search--'Disastrous Fire and Loss of Life atCarriford.'
The sight, and its calamitous bearing upon her own life, made her sodizzy that she could, for a while, hardly decipher the letters. Stiflingrecollection by an effort she nerved herself to her work, and carefullyread the column. The account reminded her of no other fact than wasremembered already.
She turned on to the following week's report of the inquest. After amiserable perusal she could find no more pertaining to Mrs. Manston'saddress than this:--
'ABRAHAM BROWN, of Hoxton, London, at whose house the deceased woman hadbeen living, deposed,' etc.
Nobody else from London had attended the inquest. She arose to depart,first sending a message of thanks to Mr. Raunham, who was out of doorsgardening.
He stuck his spade into the ground, and accompanied her to the gate.
'Can I help you in anything, Cytherea?' he said, using her Christianname by an intuition that unpleasant memories might be revived if hecalled her Miss Graye after wishing her good-bye as Mrs. Manston atthe wedding. Cytherea saw the motive and appreciated it, neverthelessreplying evasively--
'I only guess and fear.'
He earnestly looked at her again.
'Promise me that if you want assistance, and you think I can give it,you will come to me.'
'I will,' she said.
The gate closed between them.
'You don't want me to help you in anything now, Cytherea?' he repeated.
If he had spoken what he felt, 'I want very much to help you, Cytherea,and have been watching Manston on your account,' she would gladly haveaccepted his offer. As it was, she was perplexed, and raised her eyes tohis, not so fearlessly as before her trouble, but as modestly, and withstill enough brightness in them to do fearful execution as she said overthe gate--
'No, thank you.'
She returned to Tolchurch weary with her day's work. Owen's greeting wasanxious--
'Well, Cytherea?'
She gave him the words from the report of the inquest, pencilled on aslip of paper.
'Now to find out the name of the street and number,' Owen remarked.
'Owen,' she said, 'will you forgive me for what I am going to say? Idon't think I can--indeed I don't think I can--take any further stepstowards disentangling the mystery. I still think it a useless task, andit does not seem any duty of mine to be revenged upon Mr. Manston in anyway.' She added more gravely, 'It is beneath my dignity as a woman tolabour for this; I have felt it so all day.'
'Very well,' he said, somewhat shortly; 'I shall work without you then.There's dignity in justice.' He caught sight of her pale tired face, andthe dilated eye which always appeared in her with weariness. 'Darling,'he continued warmly, and kissing her, 'you shall not work so hardagain--you are worn out quite. But you must let me do as I like.'
2. MARCH THE TENTH
On Saturday evening Graye hurried off to Casterbridge, and called at thehouse of the reporter to the Chronicle. The reporter was at home, andcame out to Graye in the passage. Owen explained who and what he was,and asked the man if he would oblige him by turning to his notes ofthe inquest at Carriford in the December of the year preceding thelast--just adding that a family entanglement, of which the reporterprobably knew something, made him anxious to ascertain some additionaldetails of the event, if any existed.
'Certainly,' said the other, without hesitation 'though I am afraidI haven't much beyond what we printed at the time. Let me see--my oldnote-books are in my drawer at the office of the paper: if you willcome with me I can refer to them there.' His wife and family were at teainside the room, and with the timidity of decent poverty everywhere heseemed glad to get a stranger out of his domestic groove.
They crossed the street, entered the office, and went thence to aninner room. Here, after a short search, was found the book required. Theprecise address, not given in the condensed report that was printed, butwritten down by the reporter, was as follows:--
'ABRAHAM BROWN, LODGING-HOUSE KEEPER, 41 CHARLES SQUARE, HOXTON.'
Owen copied it, and gave the reporter a small fee. 'I want to keepthis inquiry private for the present,' he said hesitatingly. 'You willperhaps understand why, and oblige me.'
The reporter promised. 'News is shop with me,' he said, 'and to escapefrom handling it is my greatest social enjoyment.'
It was evening, and the outer room of the publishing-office was lightedup with flaring jets of gas. After making the above remark, the reportercame out from the inner apartment in Graye's company, answering anexpression of obligation from Owen with the words that it was notrouble. At the moment of his speech, he closed behind him the doorbetween the two rooms, still holding his note-book in his hand.
Before the counter of the front room stood a tall man, who was alsospeaking, when they emerged. He said to the youth in attendance, 'I willtake my paper for this week now I am here, so that you needn't post itto me.'
The stranger then slightly turned his head, saw Owen, and recognizedhim. Owen passed out without recognizing the other as Manston.
Manston then looked at the reporter, who, after walking to the door withOwen, had come back again to lock up his books. Manston did not need tobe told that the shabby marble-covered book which he held in hishand, opening endways and interleaved with blotting-paper, was anold reporting-book. He raised hi
s eyes to the reporter's face, whoseexperience had not so schooled his features but that they betrayed aconsciousness, to one half initiated as the other was, that his lateproceeding had been connected with events in the life of the steward.Manston said no more, but, taking his newspaper, followed Owen from theoffice, and disappeared in the gloom of the street.
Edward Springrove was now in London again, and on this same evening,before leaving Casterbridge, Owen wrote a careful letter to him, statingtherein all the facts that had come to his knowledge, and begginghim, as he valued Cytherea, to make cautious inquiries. A tall manwas standing under the lamp-post, about half-a-dozen yards above thepost-office, when he dropped the letter into the box.
That same night, too, for a reason connected with the rencounter withOwen Graye, the steward entertained the idea of rushing off suddenly toLondon by the mail-train, which left Casterbridge at ten o'clock.But remembering that letters posted after the hour at which Owen hadobtained his information--whatever that was--could not be deliveredin London till Monday morning, he changed his mind and went home toKnapwater. Making a confidential explanation to his wife, arrangementswere set on foot for his departure by the mail on Sunday night.
3. MARCH THE ELEVENTH
Starting for church the next morning several minutes earlier than wasusual with him, the steward intentionally loitered along the road fromthe village till old Mr. Springrove overtook him. Manston spoke verycivilly of the morning, and of the weather, asking how the farmer'sbarometer stood, and when it was probable that the wind might change. Itwas not in Mr. Springrove's nature--going to church as he was, too--toreturn anything but a civil answer to such civil questions, however hisfeelings might have been biassed by late events. The conversation wascontinued on terms of greater friendliness.
'You must be feeling settled again by this time, Mr. Springrove, afterthe rough turn-out you had on that terrible night in November.'
'Ay, but I don't know about feeling settled, either, Mr. Manston. Theold window in the chimney-corner of the old house I shall never forget.No window in the chimney-corner where I am now, and I had been used toit for more than fifty years. Ted says 'tis a great loss to me, and heknows exactly what I feel.'
'Your son is again in a good situation, I believe?' said Manston,imitating that inquisitiveness into the private affairs of the nativeswhich passes for high breeding in country villages.
'Yes, sir. I hope he'll keep it, or do something else and stick to it.'
''Tis to be hoped he'll be steady now.'
'He's always been that, I assure 'ee,' said the old man tartly.
'Yes--yes--I mean intellectually steady. Intellectual wild oats willthrive in a soil of the strictest morality.'
'Intellectual gingerbread! Ted's steady enough--that's all I know aboutit.'
'Of course--of course. Has he respectable lodgings? My own experiencehas shown me that that's a great thing to a young man living alone inLondon.'
'Warwick Street, Charing Cross--that's where he is.'
'Well, to be sure--strange! A very dear friend of mine used to live atnumber fifty-two in that very same street.'
'Edward lives at number forty-nine--how very near being the same house!'said the old farmer, pleased in spite of himself.
'Very,' said Manston. 'Well, I suppose we had better step along a littlequicker, Mr. Springrove; the parson's bell has just begun.'
'Number forty-nine,' he murmured.
4. MARCH THE TWELFTH
Edward received Owen's letter in due time, but on account of his dailyengagements he could not attend to any request till the clock had struckfive in the afternoon. Rushing then from his office in Westminster, hecalled a hansom and proceeded to Hoxton. A few minutes later he knockedat the door of number forty-one, Charles Square, the old lodging of Mrs.Manston.
A tall man who would have looked extremely handsome had he not beenclumsily and closely wrapped up in garments that were much too elderlyin style for his years, stood at the corner of the quiet square at thesame instant, having, too, alighted from a cab, that had been drivenalong Old Street in Edward's rear. He smiled confidently when Springroveknocked.
Nobody came to the door. Springrove knocked again.
This brought out two people--one at the door he had been knocking upon,the other from the next on the right.
'Is Mr. Brown at home?' said Springrove.
'No, sir.'
'When will he be in?'
'Quite uncertain.'
'Can you tell me where I may find him?'
'No. O, here he is coming, sir. That's Mr. Brown.'
Edward looked down the pavement in the direction pointed out by thewoman, and saw a man approaching. He proceeded a few steps to meet him.
Edward was impatient, and to a certain extent still a countryman, whohad not, after the manner of city men, subdued the natural impulse tospeak out the ruling thought without preface. He said in a quiet tone tothe stranger, 'One word with you--do you remember a lady lodger of yoursof the name of Mrs. Manston?'
Mr. Brown half closed his eyes at Springrove, somewhat as if he werelooking into a telescope at the wrong end.
'I have never let lodgings in my life,' he said, after his survey.
'Didn't you attend an inquest a year and a half ago, at Carriford?'
'Never knew there was such a place in the world, sir; and as tolodgings, I have taken acres first and last during the last thirtyyears, but I have never let an inch.'
'I suppose there is some mistake,' Edward murmured, and turned away. Heand Mr. Brown were now opposite the door next to the one he had knockedat. The woman who was still standing there had heard the inquiry and theresult of it.
'I expect it is the other Mr. Brown, who used to live there, that youwant, sir,' she said. 'The Mr. Brown that was inquired for the otherday?'
'Very likely that is the man,' said Edward, his interest reawakening.
'He couldn't make a do of lodging-letting here, and at last he went toCornwall, where he came from, and where his brother still lived, whohad often asked him to come home again. But there was little luck in thechange; for after London they say he couldn't stand the rainy west windsthey get there, and he died in the December following. Will you stepinto the passage?'
'That's unfortunate,' said Edward, going in. 'But perhaps you remember aMrs. Manston living next door to you?'
'O yes,' said the landlady, closing the door. 'The lady who was supposedto have met with such a horrible fate, and was alive all the time. I sawher the other day.'
'Since the fire at Carriford?'
'Yes. Her husband came to ask if Mr. Brown was still living here--justas you might. He seemed anxious about it; and then one evening, a weekor fortnight afterwards, when he came again to make further inquiries,she was with him. But I did not speak to her--she stood back, as if shewere shy. I was interested, however, for old Mr. Brown had told me allabout her when he came back from the inquest.'
'Did you know Mrs. Manston before she called the other day?'
'No. You see she was only Mr. Brown's lodger for two or three weeks,and I didn't know she was living there till she was near upon leavingagain--we don't notice next-door people much here in London. I muchregretted I had not known her when I heard what had happened. It ledme and Mr. Brown to talk about her a great deal afterwards. I littlethought I should see her alive after all.'
'And when do you say they came here together?'
'I don't exactly remember the day--though I remember a very beautifuldream I had that same night--ah, I shall never forget it! Shoals oflodgers coming along the square with angels' wings and bright goldensovereigns in their hands wanting apartments at West End prices. Theywould not give any less; no, not if you--'
'Yes. Did Mrs. Manston leave anything, such as papers, when she leftthese lodgings originally?' said Edward, though his heart sank as heasked. He felt that he was outwitted. Manston and his wife had beenthere before him, clearing the ground of all traces.
'I have always said "No" hi
therto,' replied the woman, 'considering Icould say no more if put upon my oath, as I expected to be. But speakingin a common everyday way now the occurrence is past, I believe a fewthings of some kind (though I doubt if they were papers) were left ina workbox she had, because she talked about it to Mr. Brown, and wasrather angry at what occurred--you see, she had a temper by all account,and so I didn't like to remind the lady of this workbox when she camethe other day with her husband.'
'And about the workbox?'
'Well, from what was casually dropped, I think Mrs. Manston had a fewarticles of furniture she didn't want, and when she was leaving theywere put in a sale just by. Amongst her things were two workboxes verymuch alike. One of these she intended to sell, the other she didn't, andMr. Brown, who collected the things together, took the wrong one to thesale.'
'What was in it?'
'O, nothing in particular, or of any value--some accounts, and her usualsewing materials I think--nothing more. She didn't take much troubleto get it back--she said the bills were worth nothing to her or anybodyelse, but that she should have liked to keep the box because her husbandgave it her when they were first married, and if he found she had partedwith it, he would be vexed.'
'Did Mrs. Manston, when she called recently with her husband, allude tothis, or inquire for it, or did Mr. Manston?'
'No--and I rather wondered at it. But she seemed to have forgottenit--indeed, she didn't make any inquiry at all, only standing behindhim, listening to his; and he probably had never been told anythingabout it.'
'Whose sale were these articles of hers taken to?'
'Who was the auctioneer? Mr. Halway. His place is the third turningfrom the end of that street you see there. Anybody will tell you theshop--his name is written up.'
Edward went off to follow up his clue with a promptness which wasdictated more by a dogged will to do his utmost than by a hope ofdoing much. When he was out of sight, the tall and cloaked man, who hadwatched him, came up to the woman's door, with an appearance of being inbreathless haste.
'Has a gentleman been here inquiring about Mrs. Manston?'
'Yes; he's just gone.'
'Dear me! I want him.'
'He's gone to Mr. Halway's.'
'I think I can give him some information upon the subject. Does he paypretty liberally?'
'He gave me half-a-crown.'
'That scale will do. I'm a poor man, and will see what my littlecontribution to his knowledge will fetch. But, by the way, perhaps youtold him all I know--where she lived before coming to live here?'
'I didn't know where she lived before coming here. O no--I only saidwhat Mr. Brown had told me. He seemed a nice, gentle young man, or Ishouldn't have been so open as I was.'
'I shall now about catch him at Mr. Halway's,' said the man, and wentaway as hastily as he had come.
Edward in the meantime had reached the auction-room. He found somedifficulty, on account of the inertness of those whose only inducementto an action is a mere wish from another, in getting the information hestood in need of, but it was at last accorded him. The auctioneer's bookgave the name of Mrs. Higgins, 3 Canley Passage, as the purchaser of thelot which had included Mrs. Manston's workbox.
Thither Edward went, followed by the man. Four bell pulls, one above theother like waistcoat-buttons, appeared on the door-post. Edward seizedthe first he came to.
'Who did you woant?' said a thin voice from somewhere.
Edward looked above and around him; nobody was visible.
'Who did you woant?' said the thin voice again.
He found now that the sound proceeded from below the grating coveringthe basement window. He dropped his glance through the bars, and saw achild's white face.
'Who did you woant?' said the voice the third time, with precisely thesame languid inflection.
'Mrs. Higgins,' said Edward.
'Third bell up,' said the face, and disappeared.
He pulled the third bell from the bottom, and was admitted by anotherchild, the daughter of the woman he was in search of. He gave the littlething sixpence, and asked for her mamma. The child led him upstairs.
Mrs. Higgins was the wife of a carpenter who from want of employmentone winter had decided to marry. Afterwards they both took to drink,and sank into desperate circumstances. A few chairs and a table werethe chief articles of furniture in the third-floor back room which theyoccupied. A roll of baby-linen lay on the floor; beside it a pap-cloggedspoon and an overturned tin pap-cup. Against the wall a Dutch clock wasfixed out of level, and ticked wildly in longs and shorts, its entrailshanging down beneath its white face and wiry hands, like the faeces of aHarpy ('foedissima ventris proluvies, uncaeque manus, et pallida semperora'). A baby was crying against every chair-leg, the whole family ofsix or seven being small enough to be covered by a washing-tub. Mrs.Higgins sat helpless, clothed in a dress which had hooks and eyes inplenty, but never one opposite the other, thereby rendering thedress almost useless as a screen to the bosom. No workbox was visibleanywhere.
It was a depressing picture of married life among the very poor of acity. Only for one short hour in the whole twenty-four did husband andwife taste genuine happiness. It was in the evening, when, afterthe sale of some necessary article of furniture, they were under theinfluence of a quartern of gin.
Of all the ingenious and cruel satires that from the beginning till nowhave been stuck like knives into womankind, surely there is not one solacerating to them, and to us who love them, as the trite old fact, thatthe most wretched of men can, in the twinkling of an eye, find a wifeready to be more wretched still for the sake of his company.
Edward hastened to despatch his errand.
Mrs. Higgins had lately pawned the workbox with other useless articlesof lumber, she said. Edward bought the duplicate of her, and wentdownstairs to the pawnbroker's.
In the back division of a musty shop, amid the heterogeneous collectionof articles and odours invariably crowding such places, he produced histicket, and with a sense of satisfaction out of all proportion to theprobable worth of his acquisition, took the box and carried it offunder his arm. He attempted to lift the cover as he walked, but found itlocked.
It was dusk when Springrove reached his lodging. Entering his smallsitting-room, the front apartment on the ground floor, he struck alight, and proceeded to learn if any scrap or mark within or upon hispurchase rendered it of moment to the business in hand. Breaking openthe cover with a small chisel, and lifting the tray, he glanced eagerlybeneath, and found--nothing.
He next discovered that a pocket or portfolio was formed on theunderside of the cover. This he unfastened, and slipping his handwithin, found that it really contained some substance. First he pulledout about a dozen tangled silk and cotton threads. Under them werea short household account, a dry moss-rosebud, and an old pair ofcarte-de-visite photographs. One of these was a likeness of Mrs.Manston--'Eunice' being written under it in ink--the other of Manstonhimself.
He sat down dispirited. This was all the fruit of his task--not a singleletter, date, or address of any kind to help him--and was it likelythere would be?
However, thinking he would send the fragments, such as they were, toGraye, in order to satisfy him that he had done his best so far,he scribbled a line, and put all except the silk and cotton into anenvelope. Looking at his watch, he found it was then twenty minutes toseven; by affixing an extra stamp he would be enabled to despatch themby that evening's post. He hastily directed the packet, and ran with itat once to the post-office at Charing Cross.
On his return he took up the workbox again to examine it more leisurely.He then found there was also a small cavity in the tray under thepincushion, which was movable by a bit of ribbon. Lifting this heuncovered a flattened sprig of myrtle, and a small scrap of crumpledpaper. The paper contained a verse or two in a man's handwriting. Herecognized it as Manston's, having seen notes and bills from him at hisfather's house. The stanza was of a complimentary character, descriptiveof the lady who was now Manston's wi
fe.
'EUNICE.
'Whoso for hours or lengthy days Shall catch her aspect's changeful rays, Then turn away, can none recall Beyond a galaxy of all In hazy portraiture; Lit by the light of azure eyes Like summer days by summer skies: Her sweet transitions seem to be A kind of pictured melody, And not a set contour. 'AE. M.'
To shake, pull, and ransack the box till he had almost destroyed it wasnow his natural action. But it contained absolutely nothing more.
'Disappointed again,' he said, flinging down the box, the bit of paper,and the withered twig that had lain with it.
Yet valueless as the new acquisition was, on second thoughts heconsidered that it would be worth while to make good the statement inhis late note to Graye--that he had sent everything the box containedexcept the sewing-thread. Thereupon he enclosed the verse andmyrtle-twig in another envelope, with a remark that he had overlookedthem in his first search, and put it on the table for the next day'spost.
In his hurry and concentration upon the matter that occupied him,Springrove, on entering his lodging and obtaining a light, had notwaited to pull down the blind or close the shutters. Consequently allthat he had done had been visible from the street. But as on an averagenot one person a minute passed along the quiet pavement at this timeof the evening, the discovery of the omission did not much concern hismind.
But the real state of the case was that a tall man had stood against theopposite wall and watched the whole of his proceeding. When Edward cameout and went to the Charing Cross post-office, the man followed himand saw him drop the letter into the box. The stranger did not furthertrouble himself to follow Springrove back to his lodging again.
Manston now knew that there had been photographs of some kind in hiswife's workbox, and though he had not been near enough to see them, heguessed whose they were. The least reflection told him to whom they hadbeen sent.
He paused a minute under the portico of the post-office, looking at thetwo or three omnibuses stopping and starting in front of him. Then herushed along the Strand, through Holywell Street, and on to Old BoswellCourt. Kicking aside the shoeblacks who began to importune him as hepassed under the colonnade, he turned up the narrow passage to thepublishing-office of the Post-Office Directory. He begged to be allowedto see the Directory of the south-west counties of England for a moment.
The shopman immediately handed down the volume from a shelf, and Manstonretired with it to the window-bench. He turned to the county, andthen to the parish of Tolchurch. At the end of the historical andtopographical description of the village he read:--
'Postmistress--Mrs. Hurston. Letters received at 6.30 A.M. by foot-postfrom Anglebury.'
Returning his thanks, he handed back the book and quitted the office,thence pursuing his way to an obscure coffee-house by the Strand, wherehe now partook of a light dinner. But rest seemed impossible with him.Some absorbing intention kept his body continually on the move. Hepaid his bill, took his bag in his hand, and went out to idle about thestreets and over the river till the time should have arrived at whichthe night-mail left the Waterloo Station, by which train he intended toreturn homeward.
There exists, as it were, an outer chamber to the mind, in which, when aman is occupied centrally with the most momentous question of his life,casual and trifling thoughts are just allowed to wander softly for aninterval, before being banished altogether. Thus, amid his concentrationdid Manston receive perceptions of the individuals about him in thelively thoroughfare of the Strand; tall men looking insignificant;little men looking great and profound; lost women of miserable reputelooking as happy as the days are long; wives, happy by assumption,looking careworn and miserable. Each and all were alike in this onerespect, that they followed a solitary trail like the inwoven threadswhich form a banner, and all were equally unconscious of the significantwhole they collectively showed forth.
At ten o'clock he turned into Lancaster Place, crossed the river,and entered the railway-station, where he took his seat in the downmail-train, which bore him, and Edward Springrove's letter to Graye, faraway from London.