Desperate Remedies

by Thomas Hardy

  XVII. THE EVENTS OF ONE DAY

  1. MARCH THE THIRTEENTH. THREE TO SIX O'CLOCK A.M.

  They entered Anglebury Station in the dead, still time of early morning,the clock over the booking-office pointing to twenty-five minutes tothree. Manston lingered on the platform and saw the mail-bags broughtout, noticing, as a pertinent pastime, the many shabby blotches of waxfrom innumerable seals that had been set upon their mouths. The guardtook them into a fly, and was driven down the road to the post-office.

  It was a raw, damp, uncomfortable morning, though, as yet, little rainwas falling. Manston drank a mouthful from his flask and walked at onceaway from the station, pursuing his way through the gloom till he stoodon the side of the town adjoining, at a distance from the last house inthe street of about two hundred yards.

  The station road was also the turnpike-road into the country, the firstpart of its course being across a heath. Having surveyed the highway upand down to make sure of its bearing, Manston methodically set himselfto walk backwards and forwards a stone's throw in each direction.Although the spring was temperate, the time of day, and the conditionof suspense in which the steward found himself, caused a sensation ofchilliness to pervade his frame in spite of the overcoat he wore. Thedrizzling rain increased, and drops from the trees at the wayside fellnoisily upon the hard road beneath them, which reflected from its glassysurface the faint halo of light hanging over the lamps of the adjacenttown.

  Here he walked and lingered for two hours, without seeing or hearing aliving soul. Then he heard the market-house clock strike five, and soonafterwards, quick hard footsteps smote upon the pavement of the streetleading towards him. They were those of the postman for the Tolchurchbeat. He reached the bottom of the street, gave his bags a finalhitch-up, stepped off the pavement, and struck out for the country witha brisk shuffle.

  Manston then turned his back upon the town, and walked slowly on. In twominutes a flickering light shone upon his form, and the postman overtookhim.

  The new-comer was a short, stooping individual of above five-and-forty,laden on both sides with leather bags large and small, and carrying alittle lantern strapped to his breast, which cast a tiny patch of lightupon the road ahead.

  'A tryen mornen for travellers!' the postman cried, in a cheerful voice,without turning his head or slackening his trot.

  'It is, indeed,' said Manston, stepping out abreast of him. 'You have along walk every day.'

  'Yes--a long walk--for though the distance is only sixteen miles on thestraight--that is, eight to the furthest place and eight back, what withthe ins and outs to the gentlemen's houses, it makes two-and-twenty formy legs. Two-and-twenty miles a day, how many a year? I used to reckonit, but I never do now. I don't care to think o' my wear and tear, nowit do begin to tell upon me.'

  Thus the conversation was begun, and the postman proceeded to narratethe different strange events that marked his experience. Manston grewvery friendly.

  'Postman, I don't know what your custom is,' he said, after a while;'but between you and me, I always carry a drop of something warm in mypocket when I am out on such a morning as this. Try it.' He handed thebottle of brandy.

  'If you'll excuse me, please. I haven't took no stimmilents these fiveyears.'

  ''Tis never too late to mend.'

  'Against the regulations, I be afraid.'

  'Who'll know it?'

  'That's true--nobody will know it. Still, honesty's the best policy.'

  'Ah--it is certainly. But, thank God, I've been able to get on withoutit yet. You'll surely drink with me?'

  'Really, 'tis a'most too early for that sort o' thing--however, tooblige a friend, I don't object to the faintest shadder of a drop.' Thepostman drank, and Manston did the same to a very slight degree. Fiveminutes later, when they came to a gate, the flask was pulled out again.

  'Well done!' said the postman, beginning to feel its effect; 'but guidemy soul, I be afraid 'twill hardly do!'

  'Not unless 'tis well followed, like any other line you take up,' saidManston. 'Besides, there's a way of liking a drop of liquor, and ofbeing good--even religious--at the same time.'

  'Ay, for some thimble-and-button in-an-out fellers; but I could neverget into the knack o' it; not I.'

  'Well, you needn't be troubled; it isn't necessary for the higher classof mind to be religious--they have so much common-sense that they canrisk playing with fire.'

  'That hits me exactly.'

  'In fact, a man I know, who always had no other god but "Me;" anddevoutly loved his neighbour's wife, says now that believing is amistake.'

  'Well, to be sure! However, believing in God is a mistake made by veryfew people, after all.'

  'A true remark.'

  'Not one Christian in our parish would walk half a mile in a rainlike this to know whether the Scripture had concluded him under sin orgrace.'

  'Nor in mine.'

  'Ah, you may depend upon it they'll do away wi' Goddymity altogetherafore long, although we've had him over us so many years.'

  'There's no knowing.'

  'And I suppose the Queen 'ill be done away wi' then. A pretty concernthat'll be! Nobody's head to put on your letters; and then your honestman who do pay his penny will never be known from your scamp who don't.O, 'tis a nation!'

  'Warm the cockles of your heart, however. Here's the bottle waiting.'

  'I'll oblige you, my friend.'

  The drinking was repeated. The postman grew livelier as he went on, andat length favoured the steward with a song, Manston himself joining inthe chorus.

  'He flung his mallet against the wall, Said, "The Lord make churches and chapels to fall, And there'll be work for tradesmen all!" When Joan's ale was new, My boys, When Joan's ale was new.'

  'You understand, friend,' the postman added, 'I was originally a masonby trade: no offence to you if you be a parson?'

  'None at all,' said Manston.

  The rain now came down heavily, but they pursued their path withalacrity, the produce of the several fields between which the lane woundits way being indicated by the peculiar character of the sound emittedby the falling drops. Sometimes a soaking hiss proclaimed that they werepassing by a pasture, then a patter would show that the rain fell uponsome large-leafed root crop, then a paddling plash announced the nakedarable, the low sound of the wind in their ears rising and falling witheach pace they took.

  Besides the small private bags of the county families, which were alllocked, the postman bore the large general budget for the remaininginhabitants along his beat. At each village or hamlet they came to, thepostman searched for the packet of letters destined for that place, andthrust it into an ordinary letter-hole cut in the door of the receiver'scottage--the village post-offices being mostly kept by old women who hadnot yet risen, though lights moving in other cottage windows showed thatsuch people as carters, woodmen, and stablemen had long been stirring.

  The postman had by this time become markedly unsteady, but he stillcontinued to be too conscious of his duties to suffer the steward tosearch the bag. Manston was perplexed, and at lonely points in the roadcast his eyes keenly upon the short bowed figure of the man trottingthrough the mud by his side, as if he were half inclined to run a verygreat risk indeed.

  It frequently happened that the houses of farmers, clergymen, etc., laya short distance up or down a lane or path branching from the directtrack of the postman's journey. To save time and distance, at the pointof junction of some of these paths with the main road, the gate-post washollowed out to form a letter-box, in which the postman deposited hismissives in the morning, looking in the box again in the evening tocollect those placed there for the return post. Tolchurch Vicarageand Farmstead, lying back from the village street, were served on thisprinciple. This fact the steward now learnt by conversing with thepostman, and the discovery relieved Manston greatly, making hisintentions much clearer to himself than they had been in the earliersta
ges of his journey.

  They had reached the outskirts of the village. Manston insisted upon theflask being emptied before they proceeded further. This was done, andthey approached the church, the vicarage, and the farmhouse in whichOwen and Cytherea were living.

  The postman paused, fumbled in his bag, took out by the light of hislantern some half-dozen letters, and tried to sort them. He could notperform the task.

  'We be crippled disciples a b'lieve,' he said, with a sigh and astagger.

  'Not drunk, but market-merry,' said Manston cheerfully.

  'Well done! If I baint so weak that I can't see the clouds--muchless letters. Guide my soul, if so be anybody should tell the Queen'spostmaster-general of me! The whole story will have to go throughParliament House, and I shall be high-treasoned--as safe as houses--andbe fined, and who'll pay for a poor martel! O, 'tis a world!'

  'Trust in the Lord--he'll pay.'

  'He pay a b'lieve! why should he when he didn't drink the drink? He paya b'lieve! D'ye think the man's a fool?'

  'Well, well, I had no intention of hurting your feelings--but how was Ito know you were so sensitive?'

  'True--you were not to know I was so sensitive. Here's a caddle wi'these letters! Guide my soul, what will Billy do!'

  Manston offered his services.

  'They are to be divided,' the man said.

  'How?' said Manston.

  'These, for the village, to be carried on into it: any for the vicarageor vicarage farm must be left in the box of the gate-post just here.There's none for the vicarage-house this mornen, but I saw when Istarted there was one for the clerk o' works at the new church. This isit, isn't it?'

  He held up a large envelope, directed in Edward Springrove'shandwriting:--

  'MR. O. GRAYE, CLERK OF WORKS, TOLCHURCH, NEAR ANGLEBURY.'

  The letter-box was scooped in an oak gate-post about a foot square.There was no slit for inserting the letters, by reason of theopportunity such a lonely spot would have afforded mischievouspeasant-boys of doing damage had such been the case; but at the side wasa small iron door, kept close by an iron reversible strap locked acrossit. One side of this strap was painted black, the other white, and whiteor black outwards implied respectively that there were letters inside,or none.

  The postman had taken the key from his pocket and was attempting toinsert it in the keyhole of the box. He touched one side, the other,above, below, but never made a straight hit.

  'Let me unlock it,' said Manston, taking the key from the postman. Heopened the box and reached out with his other hand for Owen's letter.

  'No, no. O no--no,' the postman said. 'As one of--Majesty'sservants--care--Majesty's mails--duty--put letters--own hands.' Heslowly and solemnly placed the letter in the small cavity.

  'Now lock it,' he said, closing the door.

  The steward placed the bar across, with the black side outwards,signifying 'empty,' and turned the key.

  'You've put the wrong side outwards!' said the postman. ''Tisn't empty.'

  'And dropped the key in the mud, so that I can't alter it,' said thesteward, letting something fall.

  'What an awkward thing!'

  'It is an awkward thing.'

  They both went searching in the mud, which their own trampling hadreduced to the consistency of pap, the postman unstrapping his littlelantern from his breast, and thrusting it about, close to the ground,the rain still drizzling down, and the dawn so tardy on account of theheavy clouds that daylight seemed delayed indefinitely. The rays ofthe lantern were rendered individually visible upon the thick mist, andseemed almost tangible as they passed off into it, after illuminatingthe faces and knees of the two stooping figures dripping with wet; thepostman's cape and private bags, and the steward's valise, glistening asif they had been varnished.

  'It fell on the grass,' said the postman.

  'No; it fell in the mud,' said Manston. They searched again.

  'I'm afraid we shan't find it by this light,' said the steward atlength, washing his muddy fingers in the wet grass of the bank.

  'I'm afraid we shan't,' said the other, standing up.

  'I'll tell you what we had better do,' said Manston. 'I shall be backthis way in an hour or so, and since it was all my fault, I'll lookagain, and shall be sure to find it in the daylight. And I'll hide thekey here for you.' He pointed to a spot behind the post. 'It will be toolate to turn the index then, as the people will have been here, so thatthe box had better stay as it is. The letter will only be delayed a day,and that will not be noticed; if it is, you can say you placed the ironthe wrong way without knowing it, and all will be well.'

  This was agreed to by the postman as the best thing to be done underthe circumstances, and the pair went on. They had passed the village andcome to a crossroad, when the steward, telling his companion that theirpaths now diverged, turned off to the left towards Carriford.

  No sooner was the postman out of sight and hearing than Manston stalkedback to the vicarage letter-box by keeping inside a fence, and thusavoiding the village; arrived here, he took the key from his pocket,where it had been concealed all the time, and abstracted Owen's letter.This done, he turned towards home, by the help of what he carried inhis valise adjusting himself to his ordinary appearance as he neared thequarter in which he was known.

  An hour and half's sharp walking brought him to his own door inKnapwater Park.

  2. EIGHT O'CLOCK A.M.

  Seated in his private office he wetted the flap of the stolen letter,and waited patiently till the adhesive gum could be loosened. He tookout Edward's note, the accounts, the rosebud, and the photographs,regarding them with the keenest interest and anxiety.

  The note, the accounts, the rosebud, and his own photograph, he restoredto their places again. The other photograph he took between his fingerand thumb, and held it towards the bars of the grate. There he held itfor half-a-minute or more, meditating.

  'It is a great risk to run, even for such an end,' he muttered.

  Suddenly, impregnated with a bright idea, he jumped up and left theoffice for the front parlour. Taking up an album of portraits, which layon the table, he searched for three or four likenesses of the lady whohad so lately displaced Cytherea, which were interspersed among therest of the collection, and carefully regarded them. They were taken indifferent attitudes and styles, and he compared each singly with that heheld in his hand. One of them, the one most resembling that abstractedfrom the letter in general tone, size, and attitude, he selected fromthe rest, and returned with it to his office.

  Pouring some water into a plate, he set the two portraits afloat uponit, and sitting down tried to read.

  At the end of a quarter of an hour, after several ineffectual attempts,he found that each photograph would peel from the card on which it wasmounted. This done, he threw into the fire the original likeness and therecent card, stuck upon the original card the recent likeness from thealbum, dried it before the fire, and placed it in the envelope with theother scraps.

  The result he had obtained, then, was this: in the envelope were now twophotographs, both having the same photographer's name on the back andconsecutive numbers attached. At the bottom of the one which showed hisown likeness, his own name was written down; on the other his wife'sname was written; whilst the central feature, and whole matter to whichthis latter card and writing referred, the likeness of a lady mountedupon it, had been changed.

  Mrs. Manston entered the room, and begged him to come to breakfast. Hefollowed her and they sat down. During the meal he told her what he haddone, with scrupulous regard to every detail, and showed her the result.

  'It is indeed a great risk to run,' she said, sipping her tea.

  'But it would be a greater not to do it.'

  'Yes.'

  The envelope was again fastened up as before, and Manston put it inhis pocket and went out. Shortly afterwards he was seen, on horseback,riding in a direction towards Tolchurch. Keeping to the fields, as wellas he cou
ld, for the greater part of the way, he dropped into the roadby the vicarage letter-box, and looking carefully about, to ascertainthat no person was near, he restored the letter to its nook, placed thekey in its hiding-place, as he had promised the postman, and again rodehomewards by a roundabout way.

  3. AFTERNOON

  The letter was brought to Owen Graye, the same afternoon, by one of thevicar's servants who had been to the box with a duplicate key, as usual,to leave letters for the evening post. The man found that the index hadtold falsely that morning for the first time within his recollectionbut no particular attention was paid to the mistake, as it wasconsidered. The contents of the envelope were scrutinized by Owen andflung aside as useless.

  The next morning brought Springrove's second letter, the existence ofwhich was unknown to Manston. The sight of Edward's handwriting againraised the expectations of brother and sister, till Owen had opened theenvelope and pulled out the twig and verse.

  'Nothing that's of the slightest use, after all,' he said to her; 'weare as far as ever from the merest shadow of legal proof that wouldconvict him of what I am morally certain he did, marry you, suspecting,if not knowing, her to be alive all the time.'

  'What has Edward sent?' said Cytherea.

  'An old amatory verse in Manston's writing. Fancy,' he said bitterly,'this is the strain he addressed her in when they were courting--as hedid you, I suppose.'

  He handed her the verse and she read--

  '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.'

  A strange expression had overspread Cytherea's countenance. It rapidlyincreased to the most death-like anguish. She flung down the paper,seized Owen's hand tremblingly, and covered her face.

  'Cytherea! What is it, for Heaven's sake?'

  'Owen--suppose--O, you don't know what I think.'

  'What?'

  '"_The light of azure eyes_,"' she repeated with ashy lips.

  'Well, "the light of azure eyes"?' he said, astounded at her manner.

  'Mrs. Morris said in her letter to me that her eyes are _black_!'

  'H'm. Mrs. Morris must have made a mistake--nothing likelier.'

  'She didn't.'

  'They might be either in this photograph,' said Owen, looking at thecard bearing Mrs. Manston's name.

  'Blue eyes would scarcely photograph so deep in tone as that,' saidCytherea. 'No, they seem black here, certainly.'

  'Well, then, Manston must have blundered in writing his verses.'

  'But could he? Say a man in love may forget his own name, but not thathe forgets the colour of his mistress's eyes. Besides she would haveseen the mistake when she read them, and have had it corrected.'

  'That's true, she would,' mused Owen. 'Then, Cytherea, it comes tothis--you must have been misinformed by Mrs. Morris, since there is noother alternative.'

  'I suppose I must.'

  Her looks belied her words.

  'What makes you so strange--ill?' said Owen again.

  'I can't believe Mrs. Morris wrong.'

  'But look at this, Cytherea. If it is clear to us that the woman hadblue eyes two years ago, she _must_ have blue eyes now, whatever Mrs.Morris or anybody else may fancy. Any one would think that Manston couldchange the colour of a woman's eyes to hear you.'

  'Yes,' she said, and paused.

  'You say yes, as if he could,' said Owen impatiently.

  'By changing the woman herself,' she exclaimed. 'Owen, don't you seethe horrid--what I dread?--that the woman he lives with is not Mrs.Manston--that she was burnt after all--and that I am _his wife_!'

  She tried to support a stoicism under the weight of this new trouble,but no! The unexpected revulsion of ideas was so overwhelming that shecrept to him and leant against his breast.

  Before reflecting any further upon the subject Graye led her upstairsand got her to lie down. Then he went to the window and stared out ofit up the lane, vainly endeavouring to come to some conclusion uponthe fantastic enigma that confronted him. Cytherea's new view seemedincredible, yet it had such a hold upon her that it would be necessaryto clear it away by positive proof before contemplation of her fearshould have preyed too deeply upon her.

  'Cytherea,' he said, 'this will not do. You must stay here alone all theafternoon whilst I go to Carriford. I shall know all when I return.'

  'No, no, don't go!' she implored.

  'Soon, then, not directly.' He saw her subtle reasoning--that it wasfolly to be wise.

  Reflection still convinced him that good would come of perseveringin his intention and dispelling his sister's idle fears. Anything wasbetter than this absurd doubt in her mind. But he resolved to wait tillSunday, the first day on which he might reckon upon seeing Mrs. Manstonwithout suspicion. In the meantime he wrote to Edward Springrove,requesting him to go again to Mrs. Manston's former lodgings.