Desperate Remedies
child,’ remarked Adelaide. ‘A privileged friend of mine tells me this
use of the imperative comes of being so constantly in nobody’s society
but my own.’
‘Ah, yes. I suppose she is right.’
Cytherea called the friend ‘she’ by a rule of ladylike practice; for a
woman’s ‘friend’ is delicately assumed by another friend to be of their
own sex in the absence of knowledge to the contrary; just as cats are
called she’s until they prove themselves he’s.
Miss Hinton laughed mysteriously.
‘I get a humorous reproof for it now and then, I assure you,’ she
continued.
‘“Humorous reproof:” that’s not from a woman: who can reprove humorously
but a man?’ was the groove of Cytherea’s thought at the remark. ‘Your
brother reproves you, I expect,’ said that innocent young lady.
‘No,’ said Miss Hinton, with a candid air. ‘’Tis only a professional man
I am acquainted with.’ She looked out of the window.
Women are persistently imitative. No sooner did a thought flash
through Cytherea’s mind that the man was a lover than she became a Miss
Aldclyffe in a mild form.
‘I imagine he’s a lover,’ she said.
Miss Hinton smiled a smile of experience in that line.
Few women, if taxed with having an admirer, are so free from vanity
as to deny the impeachment, even if it is utterly untrue. When it does
happen to be true, they look pityingly away from the person who is so
benighted as to have got no further than suspecting it.
‘There now--Miss Hinton; you are engaged to be married!’ said Cytherea
accusingly.
Adelaide nodded her head practically. ‘Well, yes, I am,’ she said.
The word ‘engaged’ had no sooner passed Cytherea’s lips than the sound
of it--the mere sound of her own lips--carried her mind to the time and
circumstances under which Miss Aldclyffe had used it towards herself.
A sickening thought followed--based but on a mere surmise; yet its
presence took every other idea away from Cytherea’s mind. Miss Hinton
had used Edward’s words about towns; she mentioned Mr. Springrove as
attending to her garden. It could not be that Edward was the man! that
Miss Aldclyffe had planned to reveal her rival thus!
‘Are you going to be married soon?’ she inquired, with a steadiness the
result of a sort of fascination, but apparently of indifference.
‘Not very soon--still, soon.’
‘Ah-ha! In less than three months?’ said Cytherea.
‘Two.’
Now that the subject was well in hand, Adelaide wanted no more
prompting. ‘You won’t tell anybody if I show you something?’ she said,
with eager mystery.
‘O no, nobody. But does he live in this parish?’
‘No.’
Nothing proved yet.
‘What’s his name?’ said Cytherea flatly. Her breath and heart had begun
their old tricks, and came and went hotly. Miss Hinton could not see her
face.
‘What do you think?’ said Miss Hinton.
‘George?’ said Cytherea, with deceitful agony.
‘No,’ said Adelaide. ‘But now, you shall see him first; come here;’
and she led the way upstairs into her bedroom. There, standing on the
dressing table in a little frame, was the unconscious portrait of Edward
Springrove.
‘There he is,’ Miss Hinton said, and a silence ensued.
‘Are you very fond of him?’ continued the miserable Cytherea at length.
‘Yes, of course I am,’ her companion replied, but in the tone of one who
‘lived in Abraham’s bosom all the year,’ and was therefore untouched by
solemn thought at the fact. ‘He’s my cousin--a native of this village.
We were engaged before my father’s death left me so lonely. I was only
twenty, and a much greater belle than I am now. We know each other
thoroughly, as you may imagine. I give him a little sermonizing now and
then.’
‘Why?’
‘O, it’s only in fun. He’s very naughty sometimes--not really, you
know--but he will look at any pretty face when he sees it.’
Storing up this statement of his susceptibility as another item to
be miserable upon when she had time, ‘How do you know that?’ Cytherea
asked, with a swelling heart.
‘Well, you know how things do come to women’s ears. He used to live at
Budmouth as an assistant-architect, and I found out that a young giddy
thing of a girl who lives there somewhere took his fancy for a day
or two. But I don’t feel jealous at all--our engagement is so
matter-of-fact that neither of us can be jealous. And it was a mere
flirtation--she was too silly for him. He’s fond of rowing, and kindly
gave her an airing for an evening or two. I’ll warrant they talked the
most unmitigated rubbish under the sun--all shallowness and pastime,
just as everything is at watering places--neither of them caring a bit
for the other--she giggling like a goose all the time--’
Concentrated essence of woman pervaded the room rather than air.
‘She _didn’t_! and it _wasn’t_ shallowness!’ Cytherea burst out, with
brimming eyes. ‘’Twas deep deceit on one side, and entire confidence
on the other--yes, it was!’ The pent-up emotion had swollen and swollen
inside the young thing till the dam could no longer embay it. The
instant the words were out she would have given worlds to have been able
to recall them.
‘Do you know her--or him?’ said Miss Hinton, starting with suspicion at
the warmth shown.
The two rivals had now lost their personality quite. There was the same
keen brightness of eye, the same movement of the mouth, the same mind
in both, as they looked doubtingly and excitedly at each other. As is
invariably the case with women when a man they care for is the subject
of an excitement among them, the situation abstracted the differences
which distinguished them as individuals, and left only the properties
common to them as atoms of a sex.
Cytherea caught at the chance afforded her of not betraying herself.
‘Yes, I know her,’ she said.
‘Well,’ said Miss Hinton, ‘I am really vexed if my speaking so lightly
of any friend of yours has hurt your feelings, but--’
‘O, never mind,’ Cytherea returned; ‘it doesn’t matter, Miss Hinton. I
think I must leave you now. I have to call at other places. Yes--I must
go.’
Miss Hinton, in a perplexed state of mind, showed her visitor politely
downstairs to the door. Here Cytherea bade her a hurried adieu, and
flitted down the garden into the lane.
She persevered in her duties with a wayward pleasure in giving herself
misery, as was her wont. Mr. Springrove’s name was next on the list, and
she turned towards his dwelling, the Three Tranters Inn.
3. FOUR TO FIVE P.M.
The cottages along Carriford village street were not so close but that
on one side or other of the road was always a hedge of hawthorn or
privet, over or through which could be seen gardens or orchards rich
with produce. It was about the middle of the early apple-harvest, and
the laden trees were shaken at intervals by the gatherers; the soft
pattering of the falling crop upon the grassy ground being diversified
by the loud rattle of vagrant ones upon a rail, hencoop, basket,
or lean-to roof, or upon the rounded and stooping backs of the
collectors--mostly children, who would have cried bitterly at receiving
such a smart blow from any other quarter, but smilingly assumed it to be
but fun in apples.
The Three Tranters Inn, a many-gabled, mediaeval building, constructed
almost entirely of timber, plaster, and thatch, stood close to the line
of the roadside, almost opposite the churchyard, and was connected
with a row of cottages on the left by thatched outbuildings. It was an
uncommonly characteristic and handsome specimen of the genuine roadside
inn of bygone times; and standing on one of the great highways in this
part of England, had in its time been the scene of as much of what is
now looked upon as the romantic and genial experience of stage-coach
travelling as any halting-place in the country. The railway had absorbed
the whole stream of traffic which formerly flowed through the village
and along by the ancient door of the inn, reducing the empty-handed
landlord, who used only to farm a few fields at the back of the house,
to the necessity of eking out his attenuated income by increasing the
extent of his agricultural business if he would still maintain his
social standing. Next to the general stillness pervading the spot, the
long line of outbuildings adjoining the house was the most striking and
saddening witness to the passed-away fortunes of the Three Tranters Inn.
It was the bulk of the original stabling, and where once the hoofs of
two-score horses had daily rattled over the stony yard, to and from the
stalls within, thick grass now grew, whilst the line of roofs--once so
straight--over the decayed stalls, had sunk into vast hollows till they
seemed like the cheeks of toothless age.
On a green plot at the other end of the building grew two or
three large, wide-spreading elm-trees, from which the sign was
suspended--representing the three men called tranters (irregular
carriers), standing side by side, and exactly alike to a hair’s-breadth,
the grain of the wood and joints of the boards being visible through the
thin paint depicting their forms, which were still further disfigured by
red stains running downwards from the rusty nails above.
Under the trees now stood a cider-mill and press, and upon the spot
sheltered by the boughs were gathered Mr. Springrove himself, his men,
the parish clerk, two or three other men, grinders and supernumeraries,
a woman with an infant in her arms, a flock of pigeons, and some little
boys with straws in their mouths, endeavouring, whenever the men’s backs
were turned, to get a sip of the sweet juice issuing from the vat.
Edward Springrove the elder, the landlord, now more particularly a
farmer, and for two months in the year a cider-maker, was an employer of
labour of the old school, who worked himself among his men. He was now
engaged in packing the pomace into horsehair bags with a rammer, and
Gad Weedy, his man, was occupied in shovelling up more from a tub at
his side. The shovel shone like silver from the action of the juice,
and ever and anon, in its motion to and fro, caught the rays of the
declining sun and reflected them in bristling stars of light.
Mr. Springrove had been too young a man when the pristine days of the
Three Tranters had departed for ever to have much of the host left in
him now. He was a poet with a rough skin: one whose sturdiness was
more the result of external circumstances than of intrinsic nature. Too
kindly constituted to be very provident, he was yet not imprudent.
He had a quiet humorousness of disposition, not out of keeping with a
frequent melancholy, the general expression of his countenance being one
of abstraction. Like Walt Whitman he felt as his years increased--
‘I foresee too much; it means more than I thought.’
On the present occasion he wore gaiters and a leathern apron, and worked
with his shirt-sleeves rolled up beyond his elbows, disclosing solid and
fleshy rather than muscular arms. They were stained by the cider, and
two or three brown apple-pips from the pomace he was handling were to be
seen sticking on them here and there.
The other prominent figure was that of Richard Crickett, the parish
clerk, a kind of Bowdlerized rake, who ate only as much as a woman,
and had the rheumatism in his left hand. The remainder of the group,
brown-faced peasants, wore smock-frocks embroidered on the shoulders
with hearts and diamonds, and were girt round their middle with a strap,
another being worn round the right wrist.
‘And have you seen the steward, Mr. Springrove?’ said the clerk.
‘Just a glimpse of him; but ‘twas just enough to show me that he’s not
here for long.’
‘Why mid that be?’
‘He’ll never stand the vagaries of the female figure holden the
reins--not he.’
‘She d’ pay en well,’ said a grinder; ‘and money’s money.’
‘Ah--‘tis: very much so,’ the clerk replied.