Desperate Remedies
‘I certainly did not at one time. One is apt to feel rather weary of
wives when they are so devilish civil under all aspects, as she used to
be. But anything for a change--Abigail is lost, but Michal is recovered.
You would hardly believe it, but she seems in fancy to be quite another
bride--in fact, almost as if she had really risen from the dead, instead
of having only done so virtually.’
‘You let the young pink one know that the other has come or is coming?’
‘Cui bono?’ The steward meditated critically, showing a portion of his
intensely wide and regular teeth within the ruby lips.
‘I cannot say anything to her that will do any good,’ he resumed. ‘It
would be awkward--either seeing or communicating with her again. The
best plan to adopt will be to let matters take their course--she’ll find
it all out soon enough.’
Manston found himself alone a few minutes later. He buried his face in
his hands, and murmured, ‘O my lost one! O my Cytherea! That it should
come to this is hard for me! ‘Tis now all darkness--“a land of darkness
as darkness itself; and of the shadow of death without any order, and
where the light is as darkness.”’
Yes, the artificial bearing which this extraordinary man had adopted
before strangers ever since he had overheard the conversation at the
inn, left him now, and he mourned for Cytherea aloud.
4. THE TWELFTH OF FEBRUARY
Knapwater Park is the picture--at eleven o’clock on a muddy, quiet,
hazy, but bright morning--a morning without any blue sky, and without
any shadows, the earth being enlivened and lit up rather by the spirit
of an invisible sun than by its bodily presence.
The local Hunt had met for the day’s sport on the open space of ground
immediately in front of the steward’s residence--called in the list of
appointments, ‘Old House, Knapwater’--the meet being here once every
season, for the pleasure of Miss Aldclyffe and her friends.
Leaning out from one of the first-floor windows, and surveying with
the keenest interest the lively picture of pink and black coats,
rich-coloured horses, and sparkling bits and spurs, was the returned and
long-lost woman, Mrs. Manston.
The eyes of those forming the brilliant group were occasionally turned
towards her, showing plainly that her adventures were the subject of
conversation equally with or more than the chances of the coming day.
She did not flush beneath their scrutiny; on the contrary, she seemed
rather to enjoy it, her eyes being kindled with a light of contented
exultation, subdued to square with the circumstances of her matronly
position.
She was, at the distance from which they surveyed her, an attractive
woman--comely as the tents of Kedar. But to a close observer it was
palpable enough that God did not do all the picture. Appearing at least
seven years older than Cytherea, she was probably her senior by double
the number, the artificial means employed to heighten the natural good
appearance of her face being very cleverly applied. Her form was full
and round, its voluptuous maturity standing out in strong contrast to
the memory of Cytherea’s lissom girlishness.
It seems to be an almost universal rule that a woman who once has
courted, or who eventually will court, the society of men on terms
dangerous to her honour cannot refrain from flinging the meaning glance
whenever the moment arrives in which the glance is strongly asked
for, even if her life and whole future depended upon that moment’s
abstinence.
Had a cautious, uxorious husband seen in his wife’s countenance what
might now have been seen in this dark-eyed woman’s as she caught a
stray glance of flirtation from one or other of the red-coated gallants
outside, he would have passed many days in an agony of restless jealousy
and doubt. But Manston was not such a husband, and he was, moreover,
calmly attending to his business at the other end of the manor.
The steward had fetched home his wife in the most matter-of-fact way
a few days earlier, walking round the village with her the very next
morning--at once putting an end, by this simple solution, to all the
riddling inquiries and surmises that were rank in the village and its
neighbourhood. Some men said that this woman was as far inferior to
Cytherea as earth to heaven; others, older and sager, thought Manston
better off with such a wife than he would have been with one of
Cytherea’s youthful impulses, and inexperience in household management.
All felt their curiosity dying out of them. It was the same in Carriford
as in other parts of the world--immediately circumstantial evidence
became exchanged for direct, the loungers in court yawned, gave a final
survey, and turned away to a subject which would afford more scope for
speculation.
XV. THE EVENTS OF THREE WEEKS
1. FROM THE TWELFTH OF FEBRUARY TO THE SECOND OF MARCH
Owen Graye’s recovery from the illness that had incapacitated him for so
long a time was, professionally, the dawn of a brighter prospect for him
in every direction, though the change was at first very gradual, and
his movements and efforts were little more than mechanical. With the
lengthening of the days, and the revival of building operations for the
forthcoming season, he saw himself, for the first time, on a road which,
pursued with care, would probably lead to a comfortable income at some
future day. But he was still very low down the hill as yet.
The first undertaking entrusted to him in the new year began about a
month after his return from Southampton. Mr. Gradfield had come back
to him in the wake of his restored health, and offered him the
superintendence, as clerk of works, of a church which was to be nearly
rebuilt at the village of Tolchurch, fifteen or sixteen miles from
Budmouth, and about half that distance from Carriford.
‘I am now being paid at the rate of a hundred and fifty pounds a year,’
he said to his sister in a burst of thankfulness, ‘and you shall never,
Cytherea, be at any tyrannous lady’s beck and call again as long as
I live. Never pine or think about what has happened, dear; it’s no
disgrace to you. Cheer up; you’ll be somebody’s happy wife yet.’
He did not say Edward Springrove’s, for, greatly to his disappointment,
a report had reached his ears that the friend to whom Cytherea owed
so much had been about to pack up his things and sail for Australia.
However, this was before the uncertainty concerning Mrs. Manston’s
existence had been dispersed by her return, a phenomenon that altered
the cloudy relationship in which Cytherea had lately been standing
towards her old lover, to one of distinctness; which result would have
been delightful but for circumstances about to be mentioned.
Cytherea was still pale from her recent illness, and still greatly
dejected. Until the news of Mrs. Manston’s return had reached them, she
had kept herself closely shut up during the day-time, never venturing
forth except at night. Sleeping and waking she had been in perpetual
dread lest she should still be claimed by a man whom, only a few weeks
earlier, she had regarded in the light of a future husband with quiet
assent, not unmixed with cheerfulness.
But the removal of the uneasiness in this direction--by Mrs. Manston’s
arrival, and her own consequent freedom--had been the imposition of pain
in another. Utterly fictitious details of the finding of Cytherea and
Manston had been invented and circulated, unavoidably reaching her ears
in the course of time. Thus the freedom brought no happiness, and it
seemed well-nigh impossible that she could ever again show herself the
sparkling creature she once had been--
‘Apt to entice a deity.’
On this account, and for the first time in his life, Owen made a point
of concealing from her the real state of his feelings with regard to the
unhappy transaction. He writhed in secret under the humiliation to which
they had been subjected, till the resentment it gave rise to, and for
which there was no vent, was sometimes beyond endurance; it induced a
mood that did serious damage to the material and plodding perseverance
necessary if he would secure permanently the comforts of a home for
them.
They gave up their lodgings at Budmouth, and went to Tolchurch as soon
as the work commenced.
Here they were domiciled in one half of an old farmhouse, standing not
far from the ivy-covered church tower (which was all that was to remain
of the original structure). The long steep roof of this picturesque
dwelling sloped nearly down to the ground, the old tiles that covered
it being overgrown with rich olive-hued moss. New red tiles in twos and
threes had been used for patching the holes wrought by decay, lighting
up the whole harmonious surface with dots of brilliant scarlet.
The chief internal features of this snug abode were a wide fireplace,
enormous cupboards, a brown settle, and several sketches on the wood
mantel, done in outline with the point of a hot poker--the subjects
mainly consisting of old men walking painfully erect, with a
curly-tailed dog behind.
After a week or two of residence in Tolchurch, and rambles amid the
quaint scenery circumscribing it, a tranquillity began to spread itself
through the mind of the maiden, which Graye hoped would be a preface to
her complete restoration. She felt ready and willing to live the whole
remainder of her days in the retirement of their present quarters: she
began to sing about the house in low tremulous snatches--
‘“--I said, if there’s peace to be found in the world,
A heart that is humble may hope for it here.”’
2. THE THIRD OF MARCH
Her convalescence had arrived at this point on a certain evening towards
the end of the winter, when Owen had come in from the building hard by,
and was changing his muddy boots for slippers, previously to sitting
down to toast and tea.
A prolonged though quiet knocking came to the door.
The only person who ever knocked at their door in that way was the new
vicar, the prime mover in the church-building. But he was that evening
dining with the Squire.
Cytherea was uneasy at the sound--she did not know why, unless it was
because her nerves were weakened by the sickness she had undergone.
Instead of opening the door she ran out of the room, and upstairs.
‘What nonsense, Cytherea!’ said her brother, going to the door.
Edward Springrove stood in the grey light outside.
‘Capital--not gone to Australia, and not going, of course!’ cried Owen.
‘What’s the use of going to such a place as that?--I never believed that
you would.’
‘I am going back to London again to-morrow,’ said Springrove, ‘and I
called to say a word before going. Where is... ?’
‘She has just run upstairs. Come in--never mind scraping your shoes--we
are regular cottagers now; stone floor, yawning chimney-corner, and all,
you see.’
‘Mrs. Manston came,’ said Edward awkwardly, when he had sat down in the
chimney-corner by preference.
‘Yes.’ At mention of one of his skeletons Owen lost his blitheness at
once, and fell into a reverie.
‘The history of her escape is very simple.’
‘Very.’
‘You know I always had wondered, when my father was telling any of the
circumstances of the fire to me, how it could be that a woman could
sleep so soundly as to be unaware of her horrid position till it was too
late even to give shout or sound of any kind.’
‘Well, I think that would have been possible, considering her long
wearisome journey. People have often been suffocated in their beds
before they awoke. But it was hardly likely a body would be completely
burnt to ashes as this was assumed to be, though nobody seemed to see it
at the time. And how positive the surgeon was too, about those bits of
bone! Why he should have been so, nobody can tell. I cannot help saying