Desperate Remedies
middle of a table by the window, and the hair spread carefully out upon
it. The pair then bent over the table from opposite sides, their elbows
on the edge, their hands supporting their heads, their foreheads nearly
touching, and their eyes upon the hair.
‘He ha’ been mad a’ter my lady Cytherea,’ said Mrs. Crickett, ‘and ‘tis
my very belief the hair is--’
‘No ‘tidn’. Hers idn’ so dark as that,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Elizabeth, you know that as the faithful wife of a servant of the
Church, I should be glad to think as you do about the girl. Mind I
don’t wish to say anything against Miss Graye, but this I do say, that I
believe her to be a nameless thing, and she’s no right to stick a moral
clock in her face, and deceive the country in such a way. If she wasn’t
of a bad stock at the outset she was bad in the planten, and if she
wasn’t bad in the planten, she was bad in the growen, and if not in the
growen, she’s made bad by what she’s gone through since.’
‘But I have another reason for knowing it idn’ hers,’ said Mrs. Leat.
‘Ah! I know whose it is then--Miss Aldclyffe’s, upon my song!’
‘’Tis the colour of hers, but I don’t believe it to be hers either.’
‘Don’t you believe what they d’ say about her and him?’
‘I say nothen about that; but you don’t know what I know about his
letters.’
‘What about ‘em?’
‘He d’ post all his letters here except those for one person, and they
he d’ take to Budmouth. My son is in Budmouth Post Office, as you know,
and as he d’ sit at desk he can see over the blind of the window all
the people who d’ post letters. Mr. Manston d’ unvariably go there wi’
letters for that person; my boy d’ know ‘em by sight well enough now.’
‘Is it a she?’
‘’Tis a she.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘The little stunpoll of a fellow couldn’t call to mind more than that
‘tis Miss Somebody, of London. However, that’s the woman who ha’ been
here, depend upon’t--a wicked one--some poor street-wench escaped from
Sodom, I warrant ye.’
‘Only to find herself in Gomorrah, seemingly.’
‘That may be.’
‘No, no, Mrs. Leat, this is clear to me. ‘Tis no miss who came here to
see our steward last night--whenever she came or wherever she vanished.
Do you think he would ha’ let a miss get here how she could, go away how
she would, without breakfast or help of any kind?’
Elizabeth shook her head--Mrs. Crickett looked at her solemnly.
‘I say I know she had no help of any kind; I know it was so, for the
grate was quite cold when I touched it this morning with these fingers,
and he was still in bed. No, he wouldn’t take the trouble to write
letters to a girl and then treat her so off-hand as that. There’s a tie
between ‘em stronger than feelen. She’s his wife.’
‘He married! The Lord so ‘s, what shall we hear next? Do he look married
now? His are not the abashed eyes and lips of a married man.’
‘Perhaps she’s a tame one--but she’s his wife still.’
‘No, no: he’s not a married man.’
‘Yes, yes, he is. I’ve had three, and I ought to know.’
‘Well, well,’ said Mrs. Leat, giving way. ‘Whatever may be the truth
on’t I trust Providence will settle it all for the best, as He always
do.’
‘Ay, ay, Elizabeth,’ rejoined Mrs. Crickett with a satirical sigh, as
she turned on her foot to go home, ‘good people like you may say so, but
I have always found Providence a different sort of feller.’
5. NOVEMBER THE TWENTIETH
It was Miss Aldclyffe’s custom, a custom originated by her father, and
nourished by her own exclusiveness, to unlock the post-bag herself every
morning, instead of allowing the duty to devolve on the butler, as
was the case in most of the neighbouring county families. The bag was
brought upstairs each morning to her dressing-room, where she took out
the contents, mostly in the presence of her maid and Cytherea, who
had the entree of the chamber at all hours, and attended there in the
morning at a kind of reception on a small scale, which was held by Miss
Aldclyffe of her namesake only.
Here she read her letters before the glass, whilst undergoing the
operation of being brushed and dressed.
‘What woman can this be, I wonder?’ she said on the morning succeeding
that of the last section. ‘“London, N.!” It is the first time in my
life I ever had a letter from that outlandish place, the North side of
London.’
Cytherea had just come into her presence to learn if there was anything
for herself; and on being thus addressed, walked up to Miss Aldclyffe’s
corner of the room to look at the curiosity which had raised such an
exclamation. But the lady, having opened the envelope and read a few
lines, put it quickly in her pocket, before Cytherea could reach her
side.
‘O, ‘tis nothing,’ she said. She proceeded to make general remarks in
a noticeably forced tone of sang-froid, from which she soon lapsed into
silence. Not another word was said about the letter: she seemed very
anxious to get her dressing done, and the room cleared. Thereupon
Cytherea went away to the other window, and a few minutes later left the
room to follow her own pursuits.
It was late when Miss Aldclyffe descended to the breakfast-table and
then she seemed there to no purpose; tea, coffee, eggs, cutlets, and all
their accessories, were left absolutely untasted. The next that was seen
of her was when walking up and down the south terrace, and round the
flower-beds; her face was pale, and her tread was fitful, and she
crumpled a letter in her hand.
Dinner-time came round as usual; she did not speak ten words, or indeed
seem conscious of the meal; for all that Miss Aldclyffe did in the way
of eating, dinner might have been taken out as intact as it was taken
in.
In her own private apartment Miss Aldclyffe again pulled out the letter
of the morning. One passage in it ran thus:--
‘Of course, being his wife, I could publish the fact, and compel him
to acknowledge me at any moment, notwithstanding his threats, and
reasonings that it will be better to wait. I have waited, and waited
again, and the time for such acknowledgment seems no nearer than at
first. To show you how patiently I have waited I can tell you that not
till a fortnight ago, when by stress of circumstances I had been driven
to new lodgings, have I ever assumed my married name, solely on account
of its having been his request all along that I should not do it. This
writing to you, madam, is my first disobedience, and I am justified in
it. A woman who is driven to visit her husband like a thief in the night
and then sent away like a street dog--left to get up, unbolt, unbar,
and find her way out of the house as she best may--is justified in doing
anything.
‘But should I demand of him a restitution of rights, there would be
involved a publicity which I could not endure, and a noisy scandal
flinging my name the length and breadth of the country.
‘What I still prefer to any such violent means is that you reason with
him privately, and compel him to bring me home to your parish in a
decent and careful manner, in the way that would be adopted by any
respectable man, whose wife had been living away from him for some
time, by reason, say, of peculiar family circumstances which had caused
disunion, but not enmity, and who at length was enabled to reinstate her
in his house.
‘You will, I know, oblige me in this, especially as knowledge of a
peculiar transaction of your own, which took place some years ago, has
lately come to me in a singular way. I will not at present trouble you
by describing how. It is enough, that I alone, of all people living,
know _all the sides of the story_, those from whom I collected it having
each only a partial knowledge which confuses them and points to nothing.
One person knows of your early engagement and its sudden termination;
another, of the reason of those strange meetings at inns and
coffee-houses; another, of what was sufficient to cause all this, and so
on. I know what fits one and all the circumstances like a key, and shows
them to be the natural outcrop of a rational (though rather rash) line
of conduct for a young lady. You will at once perceive how it was that
some at least of these things were revealed to me.
‘This knowledge then, common to, and secretly treasured by us both, is
the ground upon which I beg for your friendship and help, with a feeling
that you will be too generous to refuse it to me.
‘I may add that, as yet, my husband knows nothing of this, neither need
he if you remember my request.’
‘A threat--a flat stinging threat! as delicately wrapped up in words as
the woman could do it; a threat from a miserable unknown creature to an
Aldclyffe, and not the least proud member of the family either! A threat
on his account--O, O! shall it be?’
Presently this humour of defiance vanished, and the members of her body
became supple again, her proceedings proving that it was absolutely
necessary to give way, Aldclyffe as she was. She wrote a short answer
to Mrs. Manston, saying civilly that Mr. Manston’s possession of such
a near relation was a fact quite new to herself, and that she would see
what could be done in such an unfortunate affair.
6. NOVEMBER THE TWENTY-FIRST
Manston received a message the next day requesting his attendance at the
House punctually at eight o’clock the ensuing evening. Miss Aldclyffe
was brave and imperious, but with the purpose she had in view she could
not look him in the face whilst daylight shone upon her.
The steward was shown into the library. On entering it, he was
immediately struck with the unusual gloom which pervaded the apartment.
The fire was dead and dull, one lamp, and that a comparatively small
one, was burning at the extreme end, leaving the main proportion of
the lofty and sombre room in an artificial twilight, scarcely powerful
enough to render visible the titles of the folio and quarto volumes
which were jammed into the lower tiers of the bookshelves.
After keeping him waiting for more than twenty minutes (Miss Aldclyffe
knew that excellent recipe for taking the stiffness out of human flesh,
and for extracting all pre-arrangement from human speech) she entered
the room.
Manston sought her eye directly. The hue of her features was not
discernible, but the calm glance she flung at him, from which all
attempt at returning his scrutiny was absent, awoke him to the
perception that probably his secret was by some means or other known to
her; how it had become known he could not tell.
She drew forth the letter, unfolded it, and held it up to him, letting
it hang by one corner from between her finger and thumb, so that the
light from the lamp, though remote, fell directly upon its surface.
‘You know whose writing this is?’ she said.
He saw the strokes plainly, instantly resolving to burn his ships and
hazard all on an advance.
‘My wife’s,’ he said calmly.
His quiet answer threw her off her balance. She had no more expected an
answer than does a preacher when he exclaims from the pulpit, ‘Do you
feel your sin?’ She had clearly expected a sudden alarm.
‘And why all this concealment?’ she said again, her voice rising, as she
vainly endeavoured to control her feelings, whatever they were.
‘It doesn’t follow that, because a man is married, he must tell every
stranger of it, madam,’ he answered, just as calmly as before.
‘Stranger! well, perhaps not; but, Mr. Manston, why did you choose to
conceal it, I ask again? I have a perfect right to ask this question, as
you will perceive, if you consider the terms of my advertisement.’
‘I will tell you. There were two simple reasons. The first was this
practical one; you advertised for an unmarried man, if you remember?’
‘Of course I remember.’
‘Well, an incident suggested to me that I should try for the situation.