Desperate Remedies
archway. At the extremity of the long mysterious avenue of the nave and
chancel can be seen shafts of moonlight streaming in at the east window
of the church--blue, phosphoric, and ghostly.
A thorough renovation of the bell-ringing machinery and accessories had
taken place in anticipation of an interesting event. New ropes had been
provided; every bell had been carefully shifted from its carriage, and
the pivots lubricated. Bright red ‘sallies’ of woollen texture--soft
to the hands and easily caught--glowed on the ropes in place of the old
ragged knots, all of which newness in small details only rendered more
evident the irrepressible aspect of age in the mass surrounding them.
The triple-bob-major was ended, and the ringers wiped their faces and
rolled down their shirt-sleeves, previously to tucking away the ropes
and leaving the place for the night.
‘Piph--h--h--h! A good forty minutes,’ said a man with a streaming face,
and blowing out his breath--one of the pair who had taken the tenor
bell.
‘Our friend here pulled proper well--that ‘a did--seeing he’s but a
stranger,’ said Clerk Crickett, who had just resigned the second rope,
and addressing the man in the black coat.
‘’A did,’ said the rest.
‘I enjoyed it much,’ said the man modestly.
‘What we should ha’ done without you words can’t tell. The man that
d’belong by rights to that there bell is ill o’ two gallons o’ wold
cider.’
‘And now so’s,’ remarked the fifth ringer, as pertaining to the last
allusion, ‘we’ll finish this drop o’ metheglin and cider, and every man
home--along straight as a line.’
‘Wi’ all my heart,’ Clerk Crickett replied. ‘And the Lord send if I
ha’n’t done my duty by Master Teddy Springrove--that I have so.’
‘And the rest o’ us,’ they said, as the cup was handed round.
‘Ay, ay--in ringen--but I was spaken in a spiritual sense o’ this
mornen’s business o’ mine up by the chancel rails there. ‘Twas very
convenient to lug her here and marry her instead o’ doen it at that
twopenny-halfpenny town o’ Budm’th. Very convenient.’
‘Very. There was a little fee for Master Crickett.’
‘Ah--well. Money’s money--very much so--very--I always have said it. But
‘twas a pretty sight for the nation. He coloured up like any maid, that
‘a did.’
‘Well enough ‘a mid colour up. ‘Tis no small matter for a man to play
wi’ fire.’
‘Whatever it may be to a woman,’ said the clerk absently.
‘Thou’rt thinken o’ thy wife, clerk,’ said Gad Weedy. ‘She’ll play wi’it
again when thou’st got mildewed.’
‘Well--let her, God bless her; for I’m but a poor third man, I. The Lord
have mercy upon the fourth!... Ay, Teddy’s got his own at last. What
little white ears that maid hev, to be sure! choose your wife as you
choose your pig--a small ear and a small tale--that was always my joke
when I was a merry feller, ah--years agone now! But Teddy’s got her.
Poor chap, he was getten as thin as a hermit wi’ grief--so was she.’
‘Maybe she’ll pick up now.’
‘True--‘tis nater’s law, which no man shall gainsay. Ah, well do I bear
in mind what I said to Pa’son Raunham, about thy mother’s family o’
seven, Gad, the very first week of his comen here, when I was just in my
prime. “And how many daughters has that poor Weedy got, clerk?” he says.
“Six, sir,” says I, “and every one of ‘em has a brother!” “Poor woman,”
says he, “a dozen children!--give her this half-sovereign from me,
clerk.” ‘A laughed a good five minutes afterwards, when he found out my
merry nater--‘a did. But there, ‘tis over wi’ me now. Enteren the Church
is the ruin of a man’s wit for wit’s nothen without a faint shadder o’
sin.’
‘If so be Teddy and the lady had been kept apart for life, they’d both
ha’ died,’ said Gad emphatically.
‘But now instead o’ death there’ll be increase o’ life,’ answered the
clerk.
‘It all went proper well,’ said the fifth bell-ringer. ‘They didn’t flee
off to Babylonish places--not they.’ He struck up an attitude--‘Here’s
Master Springrove standen so: here’s the married woman standen likewise;
here they d’walk across to Knapwater House; and there they d’bide in the
chimley corner, hard and fast.’
‘Yes, ‘twas a pretty wedden, and well attended,’ added the clerk. ‘Here
was my lady herself--red as scarlet: here was Master Springrove, looken
as if he half wished he’d never a-come--ah, poor souls!--the men always
do! The women do stand it best--the maid was in her glory. Though she
was so shy the glory shone plain through that shy skin. Ah, it did
so’s.’
‘Ay,’ said Gad, ‘and there was Tim Tankins and his five journeymen
carpenters, standen on tiptoe and peepen in at the chancel winders.
There was Dairyman Dodman waiten in his new spring-cart to see ‘em come
out--whip in hand--that ‘a was. Then up comes two master tailors.
Then there was Christopher Runt wi’ his pickaxe and shovel. There was
wimmen-folk and there was men-folk traypsen up and down church’ard till
they wore a path wi’ traypsen so--letten the squallen children slip down
through their arms and nearly skinnen o’ em. And these were all over and
above the gentry and Sunday-clothes folk inside. Well, I seed Mr. Graye
at last dressed up quite the dand. “Well, Mr. Graye,” says I from the
top o’ church’ard wall, “how’s yerself?” Mr. Graye never spoke--he’d
prided away his hearen. Seize the man, I didn’ want en to spak. Teddy
hears it, and turns round: “All right, Gad!” says he, and laughed like a
boy. There’s more in Teddy.’
‘Well,’ said Clerk Crickett, turning to the man in black, ‘now you’ve
been among us so long, and d’know us so well, won’t ye tell us what
ye’ve come here for, and what your trade is?’
‘I am no trade,’ said the thin man, smiling, ‘and I came to see the
wickedness of the land.’
‘I said thou wast one o’ the devil’s brood wi’ thy black clothes,’
replied a sturdy ringer, who had not spoken before.
‘No, the truth is,’ said the thin man, retracting at this horrible
translation, ‘I came for a walk because it is a fine evening.’
‘Now let’s be off, neighbours,’ the clerk interrupted.
The candle was inverted in the socket, and the whole party stepped out
into the churchyard. The moon was shining within a day or two of full,
and just overlooked the three or four vast yews that stood on the
south-east side of the church, and rose in unvaried and flat darkness
against the illuminated atmosphere behind them.
‘Good-night,’ the clerk said to his comrades, when the door was locked.
‘My nearest way is through the park.’
‘I suppose mine is too?’ said the stranger. ‘I am going to the
railway-station.’
‘Of course--come on.’
The two men went over a stile to the west, the remainder of the party
going into the road on the opposite side.
‘And so the romance has ended well,’ the clerk’s companion remarked,
as they brushed along through the grass. ‘But what is the truth of the
story about the property?’
‘Now look here, neighbour,’ said Clerk Crickett, ‘if so be you’ll tell
me what your line o’ life is, and your purpose in comen here to-day,
I’ll tell you the truth about the wedden particulars.’
‘Very well--I will when you have done,’ said the other man.
‘’Tis a bargain; and this is the right o’ the story. When Miss
Aldclyffe’s will was opened, it was found to have been drawn up on the
very day that Manston (her love-child) married Miss Cytherea Graye. And
this is what that deep woman did. Deep? she was as deep as the North
Star. She bequeathed all her property, real and personal, to “THE WIFE
OF AENEAS MANSTON” (with one exception): failen her life to her husband:
failen his life to the heirs of his head--body I would say: failen
them to her absolutely and her heirs for ever: failen these to Pa’son
Raunham, and so on to the end o’ the human race. Now do you see the
depth of her scheme? Why, although upon the surface it appeared her
whole property was for Miss Cytherea, by the word “wife” being used,
and not Cytherea’s name, whoever was the wife o’ Manston would come
in for’t. Wasn’t that rale depth? It was done, of course, that her
son AEneas, under any circumstances, should be master o’ the property,
without folk knowen it was her son or suspecting anything, as they would
if it had been left to en straightway.’
‘A clever arrangement! And what was the exception?’
‘The payment of a legacy to her relative, Pa’son Raunham.’
‘And Miss Cytherea was now Manston’s widow and only relative, and
inherited all absolutely.’
‘True, she did. “Well,” says she, “I shan’t have it” (she didn’t like
the notion o’ getten anything through Manston, naturally enough, pretty
dear). She waived her right in favour o’ Mr. Raunham. Now, if there’s
a man in the world that d’care nothen about land--I don’t say there is,
but _if_ there is--‘tis our pa’son. He’s like a snail. He’s a-growed so
to the shape o’ that there rectory that ‘a wouldn’ think o’ leaven it
even in name. “‘Tis yours, Miss Graye,” says he. “No, ‘tis yours,” says
she. “‘Tis’n’ mine,” says he. The Crown had cast his eyes upon the case,
thinken o’ forfeiture by felony--but ‘twas no such thing, and ‘a gied
it up, too. Did you ever hear such a tale?--three people, a man and
a woman, and a Crown--neither o’ em in a madhouse--flingen an estate
backwards and forwards like an apple or nut? Well, it ended in this way.
Mr. Raunham took it: young Springrove was had as agent and steward, and
put to live in Knapwater House, close here at hand--just as if ‘twas
his own. He does just what he’d like--Mr. Raunham never interferen--and
hither to-day he’s brought his new wife, Cytherea. And a settlement ha’
been drawn up this very day, whereby their children, heirs, and cetrer,
be to inherit after Mr. Raunham’s death. Good fortune came at last. Her
brother, too, is doen well. He came in first man in some architectural
competition, and is about to move to London. Here’s the house, look.
Stap out from these bushes, and you’ll get a clear sight o’t.’
They emerged from the shrubbery, breaking off towards the lake, and down
the south slope. When they arrived exactly opposite the centre of the
mansion, they halted.
It was a magnificent picture of the English country-house. The whole of
the severe regular front, with its columns and cornices, was built of a
white smoothly-faced freestone, which appeared in the rays of the moon
as pure as Pentelic marble. The sole objects in the scene rivalling the
fairness of the facade were a dozen swans floating upon the lake.
At this moment the central door at the top of the steps was opened, and
two figures advanced into the light. Two contrasting figures were they.
A young lithe woman in an airy fairy dress--Cytherea Springrove: a young
man in black stereotype raiment--Edward, her husband.
They stood at the top of the steps together, looking at the moon, the
water, and the general loveliness of the prospect.
‘That’s the married man and wife--there, I’ve illustrated my story by
rale liven specimens,’ the clerk whispered.
‘To be sure, how close together they do stand! You couldn’ slip a
penny-piece between ‘em--that you couldn’! Beautiful to see it, isn’t
it--beautiful!... But this is a private path, and we won’t let ‘em see
us, as all the ringers be goen there to a supper and dance to-morrow
night.’
The speaker and his companion softly moved on, passed through the
wicket, and into the coach-road. Arrived at the clerk’s house at the
further boundary of the park, they paused to part.
‘Now for your half o’ the bargain,’ said Clerk Crickett. ‘What’s your
line o’ life, and what d’ye come here for?’
‘I’m the reporter to the Casterbridge Chronicle, and I come to pick up
the news. Good-night.’
Meanwhile Edward and Cytherea, after lingering on the steps for several
minutes, slowly descended the slope to the lake. The skiff was lying
alongside.