by Thomas Hardy
XXI. THE EVENTS OF EIGHTEEN HOURS
1. MARCH THE TWENTY-NINTH. NOON
Exactly seven days after Edward Springrove had seen the man with thebundle of straw walking down the streets of Casterbridge, old FarmerSpringrove was standing on the edge of the same pavement, talking to hisfriend, Farmer Baker.
There was a pause in their discourse. Mr. Springrove was looking downthe street at some object which had attracted his attention. 'Ah, 'tiswhat we shall all come to!' he murmured.
The other looked in the same direction. 'True, neighbour Springrove;true.'
Two men, advancing one behind the other in the middle of the road, werewhat the farmers referred to. They were carpenters, and bore on theirshoulders an empty coffin, covered by a thin black cloth.
'I always feel a satisfaction at being breasted by such a sight asthat,' said Springrove, still regarding the men's sad burden. 'I call ita sort of medicine.'
'And it is medicine.... I have not heard of any body being ill up thisway lately? D'seem as if the person died suddenly.'
'May be so. Ah, Baker, we say sudden death, don't we? But there's nodifference in their nature between sudden death and death of any othersort. There's no such thing as a random snapping off of what was laiddown to last longer. We only suddenly light upon an end--thoughtfullyformed as any other--which has been existing at that very same pointfrom the beginning, though unseen by us to be so soon.'
'It is just a discovery to your own mind, and not an alteration in theLord's.'
'That's it. Unexpected is not as to the thing, but as to our sight.'
'Now you'll hardly believe me, neighbour, but this little scene in frontof us makes me feel less anxious about pushing on wi' that threshing andwinnowing next week, that I was speaking about. Why should we not standstill, says I to myself, and fling a quiet eye upon the Whys andthe Wherefores, before the end o' it all, and we go down into themouldering-place, and are forgotten?'
''Tis a feeling that will come. But 'twont bear looking into. There's aback'ard current in the world, and we must do our utmost to advance inorder just to bide where we be. But, Baker, they are turning in herewith the coffin, look.'
The two carpenters had borne their load into a narrow way close at hand.The farmers, in common with others, turned and watched them along theway.
''Tis a man's coffin, and a tall man's, too,' continued FarmerSpringrove. 'His was a fine frame, whoever he was.'
'A very plain box for the poor soul--just the rough elm, you see.' Thecorner of the cloth had blown aside.
'Yes, for a very poor man. Well, death's all the less insult to him. Ihave often thought how much smaller the richer class are made to lookthan the poor at last pinches like this. Perhaps the greatest of allthe reconcilers of a thoughtful man to poverty--and I speak fromexperience--is the grand quiet it fills him with when the uncertainty ofhis life shows itself more than usual.'
As Springrove finished speaking, the bearers of the coffin went acrossa gravelled square facing the two men and approached a grim and heavyarchway. They paused beneath it, rang a bell, and waited.
Over the archway was written in Egyptian capitals,
'COUNTY GAOL.'
The small rectangular wicket, which was constructed in one of thetwo iron-studded doors, was opened from the inside. The men severallystepped over the threshold, the coffin dragged its melancholy lengththrough the aperture, and both entered the court, and were covered fromsight.
'Somebody in the gaol, then?'
'Yes, one of the prisoners,' said a boy, scudding by at the moment, whopassed on whistling.
'Do you know the name of the man who is dead?' inquired Baker of a thirdbystander.
'Yes, 'tis all over town--surely you know, Mr. Springrove? Why, Manston,Miss Aldclyffe's steward. He was found dead the first thing thismorning. He had hung himself behind the door of his cell, in some way,by a handkerchief and some strips of his clothes. The turnkey says hisfeatures were scarcely changed, as he looked at 'em with the early suna-shining in at the grating upon him. He has left a full account of themurder, and all that led to it. So there's an end of him.'
It was perfectly true: Manston was dead.
The previous day he had been allowed the use of writing-materials, andhad occupied himself for nearly seven hours in preparing the followingconfession:--
'LAST WORDS.
'Having found man's life to be a wretchedly conceived scheme, I renounceit, and, to cause no further trouble, I write down the facts connectedwith my past proceedings.
'After thanking God, on first entering my house, on the night of thefire at Carriford, for my release from bondage to a woman I detested,I went, a second time, to the scene of the disaster, and, finding thatnothing could be done by remaining there, shortly afterwards I returnedhome again in the company of Mr. Raunham.
'He parted from me at the steps of my porch, and went back towardsthe rectory. Whilst I still stood at the door, musing on my strangedeliverance, I saw a figure advance from beneath the shadow of the parktrees. It was the figure of a woman.
'When she came near, the twilight was sufficient to show me her attire:it was a cloak reaching to the bottom of her dress, and a thick veilcovering her face. These features, together with her size and gait,aided also by a flash of perception as to the chain of events which hadsaved her life, told me that she was my wife Eunice.
'I gnashed my teeth in a frenzy of despair; I had lost Cytherea; I hadgained one whose beauty had departed, whose utterance was complaint,whose mind was shallow, and who drank brandy every day. The revulsionof feeling was terrible. Providence, whom I had just thanked, seemed amocking tormentor laughing at me. I felt like a madman.
'She came close--started at seeing me outside--then spoke to me. Herfirst words were reproof for what I had unintentionally done, andsounded as an earnest of what I was to be cursed with as long as we bothlived. I answered angrily; this tone of mine changed her complaintsto irritation. She taunted me with a secret she had discovered, whichconcerned Miss Aldclyffe and myself. I was surprised to learn it--moresurprised that she knew it, but concealed my feeling.
'"How could you serve me so?" she said, her breath smelling of spiritseven then. "You love another woman--yes, you do. See how you drive meabout! I have been to the station, intending to leave you for ever, andyet I come to try you once more."
'An indescribable exasperation had sprung up in me as she talked--rageand regret were all in all. Scarcely knowing what I did, I furiouslyraised my hand and swung it round with my whole force to strike her. Sheturned quickly--and it was the poor creature's end. By her movement myhand came edgewise exactly in the nape of the neck--as men strike a hareto kill it. The effect staggered me with amazement. The blow must havedisturbed the vertebrae; she fell at my feet, made a few movements, anduttered one low sound.
'I ran indoors for water and some wine, I came out and lanced her armwith my penknife. But she lay still, and I found that she was dead.
'It was a long time before I could realize my horrible position. Forseveral minutes I had no idea of attempting to escape the consequencesof my deed. Then a light broke upon me. Had anybody seen her since sheleft the Three Tranters? Had they not, she was already believed by theparishioners to be dust and ashes. I should never be found out.
'Upon this I acted.
'The first question was how to dispose of the body. The impulse of themoment was to bury her at once in the pit between the engine-house andwaterfall; but it struck me that I should not have time. It was now fouro'clock, and the working-men would soon be stirring about the place. Iwould put off burying her till the next night. I carried her indoors.
'In turning the outhouse into a workshop, earlier in the season, Ifound, when driving a nail into the wall for fixing a cupboard, that thewall sounded hollow. I examined it, and discovered behind the plaster anold oven which had long been disused, and was bricked up when the housewas prepared for me.
'To
unfix this cupboard and pull out the bricks was the work of a fewminutes. Then, bearing in mind that I should have to remove the bodyagain the next night, I placed it in a sack, pushed it into the oven,packed in the bricks, and replaced the cupboard.
'I then went to bed. In bed, I thought whether there were any veryremote possibilities that might lead to the supposition that my wife wasnot consumed by the flames of the burning house. The thing which struckme most forcibly was this, that the searchers might think it odd that noremains whatever should be found.
'The clinching and triumphant deed would be to take the body and placeit among the ruins of the destroyed house. But I could not do this, onaccount of the men who were watching against an outbreak of the fire.One remedy remained.
'I arose again, dressed myself, and went down to the outhouse. I musttake down the cupboard again. I did take it down. I pulled out thebricks, pulled out the sack, pulled out the corpse, and took her keysfrom her pocket and the watch from her side.
'I then replaced everything as before.
'With these articles in my pocket I went out of the yard, and took myway through the withy copse to the churchyard, entering it from theback. Here I felt my way carefully along till I came to the nook wherepieces of bones from newly-dug graves are sometimes piled behind thelaurel-bushes. I had been earnestly hoping to find a skull among theseold bones; but though I had frequently seen one or two in the rubbishhere, there was not one now. I then groped in the other corner with thesame result--nowhere could I find a skull. Three or four fragments ofleg and back-bones were all I could collect, and with these I was forcedto be content.
'Taking them in my hand, I crossed the road, and got round behind theinn, where the couch heap was still smouldering. Keeping behind thehedge, I could see the heads of the three or four men who watched thespot.
'Standing in this place I took the bones, and threw them one by one overthe hedge and over the men's heads into the smoking embers. When thebones had all been thrown, I threw the keys; last of all I threw thewatch.
'I then returned home as I had gone, and went to bed once more, just asthe dawn began to break. I exulted--"Cytherea is mine again!"
'At breakfast-time I thought, "Suppose the cupboard should by someunlikely chance get moved to-day!"
'I went to the mason's yard hard by, while the men were at breakfast,and brought away a shovelful of mortar. I took it into the outhouse,again shifted the cupboard, and plastered over the mouth of the ovenbehind. Simply pushing the cupboard back into its place, I waited forthe next night that I might bury the body, though upon the whole it wasin a tolerably safe hiding-place.
'When the night came, my nerves were in some way weaker than they hadbeen on the previous night. I felt reluctant to touch the body. I wentto the outhouse, but instead of opening the oven, I firmly drove inthe shoulder-nails that held the cupboard to the wall. "I will bury herto-morrow night, however," I thought.
'But the next night I was still more reluctant to touch her. And myreluctance increased, and there the body remained. The oven was, afterall, never likely to be opened in my time.
'I married Cytherea Graye, and never did a bridegroom leave the churchwith a heart more full of love and happiness, and a brain more fixed ongood intentions, than I did on that morning.
'When Cytherea's brother made his appearance at the hotel inSouthampton, bearing his strange evidence of the porter's disclosure, Iwas staggered beyond expression. I thought they had found the body."Am I to be apprehended and to lose her even now?" I mourned. I sawmy error, and instantly saw, too, that I must act externally like anhonourable man. So at his request I yielded her up to him, and meditatedon several schemes for enabling me to claim the woman I had a legalright to claim as my wife, without disclosing the reason why I knewmyself to have it.
'I went home to Knapwater the next day, and for nearly a week lived ina state of indecision. I could not hit upon a scheme for proving my wifedead without compromising myself.
'Mr. Raunham hinted that I should take steps to discover her whereaboutsby advertising. I had no energy for the farce. But one evening I chancedto enter the Rising Sun Inn. Two notorious poachers were sitting inthe settle, which screened my entrance. They were half drunk--theirconversation was carried on in the solemn and emphatic tone common tothat stage of intoxication, and I myself was the subject of it.
'The following was the substance of their disjointed remarks: On thenight of the great fire at Carriford, one of them was sent to meetme, and break the news of the death of my wife to me. This he did;but because I would not pay him for his news, he left me in a moodof vindictiveness. When the fire was over, he joined his comrade. Thefavourable hour of the night suggested to them the possibility of someunlawful gain before daylight came. My fowlhouse stood in a temptingposition, and still resenting his repulse during the evening, one ofthem proposed to operate upon my birds. I was believed to have gone tothe rectory with Mr. Raunham. The other was disinclined to go, and thefirst went off alone.
'It was now about three o'clock. He had advanced as far as theshrubbery, which grows near the north wall of the house, when he fanciedhe heard, above the rush of the waterfall, noises on the other sideof the building. He described them in these words, "Ghostly mouthstalking--then a fall--then a groan--then the rush of the water and creakof the engine as before." Only one explanation occurred to him; thehouse was haunted. And, whether those of the living or the dead, voicesof any kind were inimical to one who had come on such an errand. Hestealthily crept home.
'His unlawful purpose in being behind the house led him to concealhis adventure. No suspicion of the truth entered his mind till therailway-porter had startled everybody by his strange announcement. Thenhe asked himself, had the horrifying sounds of that night been really anenactment in the flesh between me and my wife?
'The words of the other man were:
'"Why don't he try to find her if she's alive?"
'"True," said the first. "Well, I don't forget what I heard, and if shedon't turn up alive my mind will be as sure as a Bible upon hermurder, and the parson shall know it, though I do get six months on thetreadmill for being where I was."
'"And if she should turn up alive?"
'"Then I shall know that I am wrong, and believing myself a fool as wellas a rogue, hold my tongue."
'I glided out of the house in a cold sweat. The only pressure in heavenor earth which could have forced me to renounce Cytherea was now putupon me--the dread of a death upon the gallows.
'I sat all that night weaving strategy of various kinds. The onlyeffectual remedy for my hazardous standing that I could see was asimple one. It was to substitute another woman for my wife before thesuspicions of that one easily-hoodwinked man extended further.
'The only difficulty was to find a practicable substitute.
'The one woman at all available for the purpose was a friendless,innocent creature, named Anne Seaway, whom I had known in my youth,and who had for some time been the housekeeper of a lady in London. Onaccount of this lady's sudden death, Anne stood in rather a precariousposition, as regarded her future subsistence. She was not the best kindof woman for the scheme; but there was no alternative. One quality ofhers was valuable; she was not a talker. I went to London the very nextday, called at the Hoxton lodging of my wife (the only place atwhich she had been known as Mrs. Manston), and found that no greatdifficulties stood in the way of a personation. And thus favouringcircumstances determined my course. I visited Anne Seaway, made love toher, and propounded my plan.
* * * * *
'We lived quietly enough until the Sunday before my apprehension. Annecame home from church that morning, and told me of the suspicious way inwhich a young man had looked at her there. Nothing could be done beyondwaiting the issue of events. Then the letter came from Raunham. For thefirst time in my life I was half indifferent as to what fate awaited me.During the succeeding day I thought once or twice of running away, butcould not quite make up my mind. At any
rate it would be best to burythe body of my wife, I thought, for the oven might be opened at anytime. I went to Casterbridge and made some arrangements. In the eveningMiss Aldclyffe (who is united to me by a common secret which I have noright or wish to disclose) came to my house, and alarmed me still more.She said that she could tell by Mr. Raunham's manner that evening, thathe kept back from her a suspicion of more importance even than the onehe spoke of, and that strangers were in his house even then.
'I guessed what this further suspicion was, and resolved to enlightenher to a certain extent, and so secure her assistance. I said that Ikilled my wife by an accident on the night of the fire, dwelling uponthe advantage to her of the death of the only woman who knew her secret.
'Her terror, and fears for my fate, led her to watch the rectorythat evening. She saw the detective leave it, and followed him to myresidence. This she told me hurriedly when I perceived her after diggingmy wife's grave in the plantation. She did not suspect what the sackcontained.
'I am now about to enter on my normal condition. For people are almostalways in their graves. When we survey the long race of men, it isstrange and still more strange to find that they are mainly dead men,who have scarcely ever been otherwise.
'AENEAS MANSTON.'
The steward's confession, aided by circumstantial evidence of variouskinds, was the means of freeing both Anne Seaway and Miss Aldclyffe fromall suspicion of complicity with the murderer.
2. SIX O'CLOCK P.M.
It was evening--just at sunset--on the day of Manston's death.
In the cottage at Tolchurch was gathered a group consisting of Cytherea,her brother, Edward Springrove, and his father. They sat by thewindow conversing of the strange events which had just taken place. InCytherea's eye there beamed a hopeful ray, though her face was as whiteas a lily.
Whilst they talked, looking out at the yellow evening light that coatedthe hedges, trees, and church tower, a brougham rolled round the cornerof the lane, and came in full view. It reflected the rays of the sun ina flash from its polished panels as it turned the angle, the spokes ofthe wheels bristling in the same light like bayonets. The vehicle camenearer, and arrived opposite Owen's door, when the driver pulled therein and gave a shout, and the panting and sweating horses stopped.
'Miss Aldclyffe's carriage!' they all exclaimed.
Owen went out. 'Is Miss Graye at home?' said the man. 'A note for her,and I am to wait for an answer.'
Cytherea read in the handwriting of the Rector of Carriford:--
'DEAR MISS GRAYE,--Miss Aldclyffe is ill, though not dangerously. Shecontinually repeats your name, and now wishes very much to see you.If you possibly can, come in the carriage.--Very sincerely yours, JOHNRAUNHAM.'
'How comes she ill?' Owen inquired of the coachman.
'She caught a violent cold by standing out of doors in the damp, onthe night the steward ran away. Ever since, till this morning, shecomplained of fulness and heat in the chest. This morning the maid ranin and told her suddenly that Manston had killed himself in gaol--sheshrieked--broke a blood-vessel--and fell upon the floor. Severe internalhaemorrhage continued for some time and then stopped. They say she issure to get over it; but she herself says no. She has suffered from itbefore.'
Cytherea was ready in a few moments, and entered the carriage.
3. SEVEN O'CLOCK P.M.
Soft as was Cytherea's motion along the corridors of Knapwater House,the preternaturally keen intelligence of the suffering woman caughtthe maiden's well-known footfall. She entered the sick-chamber withsuspended breath.
In the room everything was so still, and sensation was as it were sorarefied by solicitude, that thinking seemed acting, and the lady'sweak act of trying to live a silent wrestling with all the powers of theuniverse. Nobody was present but Mr. Raunham, the nurse having left theroom on Cytherea's entry, and the physician and surgeon being engagedin a whispered conversation in a side-chamber. Their patient had beenpronounced out of danger.
Cytherea went to the bedside, and was instantly recognized. O, what achange--Miss Aldclyffe dependent upon pillows! And yet not a forbiddingchange. With weakness had come softness of aspect: the haughtiness wasextracted from the frail thin countenance, and a sweeter mild placidityhad taken its place.
Miss Aldclyffe signified to Mr. Raunham that she would like to be alonewith Cytherea.
'Cytherea?' she faintly whispered the instant the door was closed.
Cytherea clasped the lady's weak hand, and sank beside her.
Miss Aldclyffe whispered again. 'They say I am certain to live; but Iknow that I am certainly going to die.'
'They know, I think, and hope.'
'I know best, but we'll leave that. Cytherea--O Cytherea, can youforgive me!'
Her companion pressed her hand.
'But you don't know yet--you don't know yet,' the invalid murmured. 'Itis forgiveness for that misrepresentation to Edward Springrove that Iimplore, and for putting such force upon him--that which caused all thetrain of your innumerable ills!'
'I know all--all. And I do forgive you. Not in a hasty impulse that isrevoked when coolness comes, but deliberately and sincerely: as I myselfhope to be forgiven, I accord you my forgiveness now.'
Tears streamed from Miss Aldclyffe's eyes, and mingled with those of heryoung companion, who could not restrain hers for sympathy. Expressionsof strong attachment, interrupted by emotion, burst again and again fromthe broken-spirited woman.
'But you don't know my motive. O, if you only knew it, how you wouldpity me then!'
Cytherea did not break the pause which ensued, and the elder womanappeared now to nerve herself by a superhuman effort. She spoke on in avoice weak as a summer breeze, and full of intermission, and yet therepervaded it a steadiness of intention that seemed to demand firm tonesto bear it out worthily.
'Cytherea,' she said, 'listen to me before I die.
'A long time ago--more than thirty years ago--a young girl of seventeenwas cruelly betrayed by her cousin, a wild officer of six-and-twenty. Hewent to India, and died.
'One night when that miserable girl had just arrived home with herparents from Germany, where her baby had been born, she took all themoney she possessed, pinned it on her infant's bosom, together witha letter, stating, among other things, what she wished the child'sChristian name to be; wrapped up the little thing, and walked with it toClapham. Here, in a retired street, she selected a house. She placedthe child on the doorstep and knocked at the door, then ran away andwatched. They took it up and carried it indoors.
'Now that her poor baby was gone, the girl blamed herself bitterly forcruelty towards it, and wished she had adopted her parents' counsel tosecretly hire a nurse. She longed to see it. She didn't know what to do.She wrote in an assumed name to the woman who had taken it in, and askedher to meet the writer with the infant at certain places she named.These were hotels or coffee-houses in Chelsea, Pimlico, or Hammersmith.The woman, being well paid, always came, and asked no questions. At onemeeting--at an inn in Hammersmith--she made her appearance without thechild, and told the girl it was so ill that it would not live throughthe night. The news, and fatigue, brought on a fainting-fit....'
Miss Aldclyffe's sobs choked her utterance, and she became painfullyagitated. Cytherea, pale and amazed at what she heard, wept for her,bent over her, and begged her not to go on speaking.
'Yes--I must,' she cried, between her sobs. 'I will--I must go on! AndI must tell yet more plainly!... you must hear it before I am gone,Cytherea.' The sympathizing and astonished girl sat down again.
'The name of the woman who had taken the child was _Manston_. She wasthe widow of a schoolmaster. She said she had adopted the child of arelation.
'Only one man ever found out who the mother was. He was the keeper ofthe inn in which she fainted, and his silence she has purchased eversince.
'A twelvemonth passed--fifteen months--and the saddened girl met aman at her father's house named Graye--your father,
Cytherea, thenunmarried. Ah, such a man! Inexperience now perceived what it was tobe loved in spirit and in truth! But it was too late. Had he known hersecret he would have cast her out. She withdrew from him by an effort,and pined.
'Years and years afterwards, when she became mistress of a fortune andestates by her father's death, she formed the weak scheme of having nearher the son whom, in her father's life-time, she had been forbidden torecognize. Cytherea, you know who that weak woman is.
* * * * *
'By such toilsome labour as this I got him here as my steward. And Iwanted to see him _your husband_, Cytherea!--the husband of my truelover's child. It was a sweet dream to me.... Pity me--O, pity me! Todie unloved is more than I can bear! I loved your father, and I love himnow.'
That was the burden of Cytherea Aldclyffe.
'I suppose you must leave me again--you always leave me,' she said,after holding the young woman's hand a long while in silence.
'No--indeed I'll stay always. Do you like me to stay?'
Miss Aldclyffe in the jaws of death was Miss Aldclyffe still, though theold fire had degenerated to mere phosphorescence now. 'But you are yourbrother's housekeeper?'
'Yes.'
'Well, of course you cannot stay with me on a sudden like this.... Gohome, or he will be at a loss for things. And to-morrow morning comeagain, won't you, dearest, come again--we'll fetch you. But you mustn'tstay now, and put Owen out. O no--it would be absurd.' The absorbingconcern about trifles of daily routine, which is so often seen in verysick people, was present here.
Cytherea promised to go home, and come the next morning to staycontinuously.
'Stay till I die then, will you not? Yes, till I die--I shan't die tillto-morrow.'
'We hope for your recovery--all of us.'
'I know best. Come at six o'clock, darling.'
'As soon as ever I can,' returned Cytherea tenderly.
'But six is too early--you will have to think of your brother'sbreakfast. Leave Tolchurch at eight, will you?'
Cytherea consented to this. Miss Aldclyffe would never have knownhad her companion stayed in the house all night; but the honesty ofCytherea's nature rebelled against even the friendly deceit which such aproceeding would have involved.
An arrangement was come to whereby she was to be taken home in thepony-carriage instead of the brougham that fetched her; the carriageto put up at Tolchurch farm for the night, and on that account to be inreadiness to bring her back earlier.
4. MARCH THE THIRTIETH. DAYBREAK
The third and last instance of Cytherea's subjection to those periodicterrors of the night which had emphasized her connection with theAldclyffe name and blood occurred at the present date.
It was about four o'clock in the morning when Cytherea, though mostprobably dreaming, seemed to awake--and instantly was transfixed by asort of spell, that had in it more of awe than of affright. At thefoot of her bed, looking her in the face with an expression ofentreaty beyond the power of words to portray, was the form of MissAldclyffe--wan and distinct. No motion was perceptible in her; butlonging--earnest longing--was written in every feature.
Cytherea believed she exercised her waking judgment as usual inthinking, without a shadow of doubt, that Miss Aldclyffe stood beforeher in flesh and blood. Reason was not sufficiently alert to leadCytherea to ask herself how such a thing could have occurred.
'I would have remained with you--why would you not allow me to stay!'Cytherea exclaimed. The spell was broken: she became broadly awake; andthe figure vanished.
It was in the grey time of dawn. She trembled in a sweat of disquiet,and not being able to endure the thought of her brother being asleep,she went and tapped at his door.
'Owen!'
He was not a heavy sleeper, and it was verging upon his time to rise.
'What do you want, Cytherea?'
'I ought not to have left Knapwater last night. I wish I had not. Ireally think I will start at once. She wants me, I know.'
'What time is it?'
'A few minutes past four.'
'You had better not. Keep to the time agreed upon. Consider, we shouldhave such a trouble in rousing the driver, and other things.'
Upon the whole it seemed wiser not to act on a mere fancy. She went tobed again.
An hour later, when Owen was thinking of getting up, a knocking came tothe front door. The next minute something touched the glass of Owen'swindow. He waited--the noise was repeated. A little gravel had beenthrown against it to arouse him.
He crossed the room, pulled up the blind, and looked out. A solemn whiteface was gazing upwards from the road, expectantly straining to catchthe first glimpse of a person within the panes. It was the face of aKnapwater man sitting on horseback.
Owen saw his errand. There is an unmistakable look in the face of everyman who brings tidings of death. Graye opened the window.
'Miss Aldclyffe....' said the messenger, and paused.
'Ah--dead?'
'Yes--she is dead.'
'When did she die?'
'At ten minutes past four, after another effusion. She knew best, yousee, sir. I started directly, by the rector's orders.'
SEQUEL
Fifteen months have passed, and we are brought on to Midsummer Night,1867.
The picture presented is the interior of the old belfry of CarrifordChurch, at ten o'clock in the evening.
Six Carriford men and one stranger are gathered there, beneath the lightof a flaring candle stuck on a piece of wood against the wall. The sixCarriford men are the well-known ringers of the fine-toned old bells inthe key of F, which have been music to the ears of Carriford parish andthe outlying districts for the last four hundred years. The stranger isan assistant, who has appeared from nobody knows where.
The six natives--in their shirt-sleeves, and without hats--pull andcatch frantically at the dancing bellropes, the locks of their hairwaving in the breeze created by their quick motions; the stranger, whohas the treble bell, does likewise, but in his right mind and coat.Their ever-changing shadows mingle on the wall in an endless variety ofkaleidoscopic forms, and the eyes of all the seven are religiously fixedon a diagram like a large addition sum, which is chalked on the floor.
Vividly contrasting with the yellow light of the candle upon the fourunplastered walls of the tower, and upon the faces and clothes of themen, is the scene discernible through the screen beneath the towerarchway. At the extremity of the long mysterious avenue of the nave andchancel can be seen shafts of moonlight streaming in at the east windowof the church--blue, phosphoric, and ghostly.
A thorough renovation of the bell-ringing machinery and accessories hadtaken place in anticipation of an interesting event. New ropes had beenprovided; every bell had been carefully shifted from its carriage, andthe pivots lubricated. Bright red 'sallies' of woollen texture--softto the hands and easily caught--glowed on the ropes in place of the oldragged knots, all of which newness in small details only rendered moreevident the irrepressible aspect of age in the mass surrounding them.
The triple-bob-major was ended, and the ringers wiped their faces androlled down their shirt-sleeves, previously to tucking away the ropesand 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 tenorbell.
'Our friend here pulled proper well--that 'a did--seeing he's but astranger,' 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 thatd'belong by rights to that there bell is ill o' two gallons o' woldcider.'
'And now so's,' remarked the fifth ringer, as pertaining to the lastallusion, 'we'll finish this drop o' metheglin and cider, and every manhome--along straight as a line.'
'Wi' all my heart,' Clerk Crickett
replied. 'And the Lord send if Iha'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' thismornen's business o' mine up by the chancel rails there. 'Twas veryconvenient to lug her here and marry her instead o' doen it at thattwopenny-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 playwi' 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'itagain when thou'st got mildewed.'
'Well--let her, God bless her; for I'm but a poor third man, I. The Lordhave mercy upon the fourth!... Ay, Teddy's got his own at last. Whatlittle white ears that maid hev, to be sure! choose your wife as youchoose your pig--a small ear and a small tale--that was always my jokewhen 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 bearin 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 myprime. "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 mymerry nater--'a did. But there, 'tis over wi' me now. Enteren the Churchis 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 bothha' died,' said Gad emphatically.
'But now instead o' death there'll be increase o' life,' answered theclerk.
'It all went proper well,' said the fifth bell-ringer. 'They didn't fleeoff to Babylonish places--not they.' He struck up an attitude--'Here'sMaster Springrove standen so: here's the married woman standen likewise;here they d'walk across to Knapwater House; and there they d'bide in thechimley corner, hard and fast.'
'Yes, 'twas a pretty wedden, and well attended,' added the clerk. 'Herewas my lady herself--red as scarlet: here was Master Springrove, lookenas if he half wished he'd never a-come--ah, poor souls!--the men alwaysdo! The women do stand it best--the maid was in her glory. Though shewas so shy the glory shone plain through that shy skin. Ah, it didso's.'
'Ay,' said Gad, 'and there was Tim Tankins and his five journeymencarpenters, standen on tiptoe and peepen in at the chancel winders.There was Dairyman Dodman waiten in his new spring-cart to see 'em comeout--whip in hand--that 'a was. Then up comes two master tailors.Then there was Christopher Runt wi' his pickaxe and shovel. There waswimmen-folk and there was men-folk traypsen up and down church'ard tillthey wore a path wi' traypsen so--letten the squallen children slip downthrough their arms and nearly skinnen o' em. And these were all over andabove the gentry and Sunday-clothes folk inside. Well, I seed Mr. Grayeat last dressed up quite the dand. "Well, Mr. Graye," says I from thetop o' church'ard wall, "how's yerself?" Mr. Graye never spoke--he'dprided away his hearen. Seize the man, I didn' want en to spak. Teddyhears it, and turns round: "All right, Gad!" says he, and laughed like aboy. There's more in Teddy.'
'Well,' said Clerk Crickett, turning to the man in black, 'now you'vebeen among us so long, and d'know us so well, won't ye tell us whatye've come here for, and what your trade is?'
'I am no trade,' said the thin man, smiling, 'and I came to see thewickedness 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 horribletranslation, '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 outinto 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 thesouth-east side of the church, and rose in unvaried and flat darknessagainst 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 therailway-station.'
'Of course--come on.'
The two men went over a stile to the west, the remainder of the partygoing 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 thestory about the property?'
'Now look here, neighbour,' said Clerk Crickett, 'if so be you'll tellme 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 MissAldclyffe's will was opened, it was found to have been drawn up on thevery day that Manston (her love-child) married Miss Cytherea Graye. Andthis is what that deep woman did. Deep? she was as deep as the NorthStar. She bequeathed all her property, real and personal, to "THE WIFEOF AENEAS MANSTON" (with one exception): failen her life to her husband:failen his life to the heirs of his head--body I would say: failenthem to her absolutely and her heirs for ever: failen these to Pa'sonRaunham, and so on to the end o' the human race. Now do you see thedepth of her scheme? Why, although upon the surface it appeared herwhole property was for Miss Cytherea, by the word "wife" being used,and not Cytherea's name, whoever was the wife o' Manston would comein for't. Wasn't that rale depth? It was done, of course, that herson AEneas, under any circumstances, should be master o' the property,without folk knowen it was her son or suspecting anything, as they wouldif 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, andinherited all absolutely.'
'True, she did. "Well," says she, "I shan't have it" (she didn't likethe notion o' getten anything through Manston, naturally enough, prettydear). She waived her right in favour o' Mr. Raunham. Now, if there'sa 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 soto the shape o' that there rectory that 'a wouldn' think o' leaven iteven in name. "'Tis yours, Miss Graye," says he. "No, 'tis yours," saysshe. "'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 giedit up, too. Did you ever hear such a tale?--three people, a man anda woman, and a Crown--neither o' em in a madhouse--flingen an estatebackwards 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, andput to live in Knapwater House, close here at hand--just as if 'twashis own. He does just what he'd like--Mr. Raunham never interferen--andhither 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. Herbrother, too, is doen well. He came in first man in some architecturalcompetition, 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 downthe south slope. When they arrived exactly opposite the centre of themansion, they halted.
It was a magnificent picture of the English country-house. The whole ofthe sev
ere regular front, with its columns and cornices, was built of awhite smoothly-faced freestone, which appeared in the rays of the moonas pure as Pentelic marble. The sole objects in the scene rivalling thefairness 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, andtwo figures advanced into the light. Two contrasting figures were they.A young lithe woman in an airy fairy dress--Cytherea Springrove: a youngman in black stereotype raiment--Edward, her husband.
They stood at the top of the steps together, looking at the moon, thewater, and the general loveliness of the prospect.
'That's the married man and wife--there, I've illustrated my story byrale liven specimens,' the clerk whispered.
'To be sure, how close together they do stand! You couldn' slip apenny-piece between 'em--that you couldn'! Beautiful to see it, isn'tit--beautiful!... But this is a private path, and we won't let 'em seeus, as all the ringers be goen there to a supper and dance to-morrownight.'
The speaker and his companion softly moved on, passed through thewicket, and into the coach-road. Arrived at the clerk's house at thefurther boundary of the park, they paused to part.
'Now for your half o' the bargain,' said Clerk Crickett. 'What's yourline o' life, and what d'ye come here for?'
'I'm the reporter to the Casterbridge Chronicle, and I come to pick upthe news. Good-night.'
Meanwhile Edward and Cytherea, after lingering on the steps for severalminutes, slowly descended the slope to the lake. The skiff was lyingalongside.
'O, Edward,' said Cytherea, 'you must do something that has just comeinto my head!'
'Well, dearest--I know.'
'Yes--give me one half-minute's row on the lake here now, just as youdid on Budmouth Bay three years ago.'
He handed her into the boat, and almost noiselessly pulled off fromshore. When they were half-way between the two margins of the lake, hepaused and looked at her.
'Ah, darling, I remember exactly how I kissed you that first time,' saidSpringrove. 'You were there as you are now. I unshipped the sculls inthis way. Then I turned round and sat beside you--in this way. Then Iput my hand on the other side of your little neck--'
'I think it was just on my cheek, in this way.'
'Ah, so it was. Then you moved that soft red mouth round to mine--'
'But, dearest--you pressed it round if you remember; and of course Icouldn't then help letting it come to your mouth without being unkind toyou, and I wouldn't be that.'
'And then I put my cheek against that cheek, and turned my two lipsround upon those two lips, and kissed them--so.'
