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Desperate Remedies
DESPERATE REMEDIES
CONTENTS
PREFATORY NOTE I. THE EVENTS OF THIRTY YEARS II. THE EVENTS OF
A FORTNIGHT III. THE EVENTS OF EIGHT DAYS IV. THE EVENTS OF ONE
DAY V. THE EVENTS OF ONE DAY VI. THE EVENTS OF TWELVE HOURS
VII. THE EVENTS OF EIGHTEEN DAYS VIII. THE EVENTS OF EIGHTEEN DAYS
IX. THE EVENTS OF TEN WEEKS X. THE EVENTS OF A DAY AND NIGHT
XI. THE EVENTS OF FIVE DAYS XII. THE EVENTS OF TEN MONTHS XIII.
THE EVENTS OF ONE DAY XIV. THE EVENTS OF FIVE WEEKS XV. THE
EVENTS OF THREE WEEKS XVI. THE EVENTS OF ONE WEEK XVII. THE EVENTS
OF ONE DAY XVIII. THE EVENTS OF THREE DAYS XIX. THE EVENTS OF A DAY
AND NIGHT XX. THE EVENTS OF THREE HOURS XXI. THE EVENTS OF
EIGHTEEN HOURS SEQUEL
PREFATORY NOTE
The following story, the first published by the author, was written
nineteen years ago, at a time when he was feeling his way to a method.
The principles observed in its composition are, no doubt, too
exclusively those in which mystery, entanglement, surprise, and moral
obliquity are depended on for exciting interest; but some of the
scenes, and at least one of the characters, have been deemed not
unworthy of a little longer preservation; and as they could hardly be
reproduced in a fragmentary form the novel is reissued complete --the
more readily that it has for some considerable time been reprinted and
widely circulated in America. January 1889.
To the foregoing note I have only to add that, in the present edition
of 'Desperate Remedies,' some Wessex towns and other places that are
common to the scenes of several of these stories have been called for
the first time by the names under which they appear elsewhere, for the
satisfaction of any reader who may care for consistency in such
matters.
This is the only material change; for, as it happened that certain
characteristics which provoked most discussion in my latest story were
present in this my first--published in 1871, when there was no French
name for them it has seemed best to let them stand unaltered.
T.H. February 1896.
I. THE EVENTS OF THIRTY YEARS
1. DECEMBER AND JANUARY, 1835-36
In the long and intricately inwrought chain of circumstance which
renders worthy of record some experiences of Cytherea Graye, Edward
Springrove, and others, the first event directly influencing the issue
was a Christmas visit.
In the above-mentioned year, 1835, Ambrose Graye, a young architect
who had just begun the practice of his profession in the midland town
of Hocbridge, to the north of Christminster, went to London to spend
the Christmas holidays with a friend who lived in Bloomsbury. They had
gone up to Cambridge in the same year, and, after graduating together,
Huntway, the friend, had taken orders.
Graye was handsome, frank, and gentle. He had a quality of thought
which, exercised on homeliness, was humour; on nature,
picturesqueness; on abstractions, poetry. Being, as a rule, broadcast,
it was all three.
Of the wickedness of the world he was too forgetful. To discover evil
in a new friend is to most people only an additional experience: to
him it was ever a surprise.
While in London he became acquainted with a retired officer in the
Navy named Bradleigh, who, with his wife and their daughter, lived in
a street not far from Russell Square. Though they were in no more than
comfortable circumstances, the captain's wife came of an ancient
family whose genealogical tree was interlaced with some of the most
illustrious and well-known in the kingdom.
The young lady, their daughter, seemed to Graye by far the most
beautiful and queenly being he had ever beheld. She was about nineteen
or twenty, and her name was Cytherea. In truth she was not so very
unlike country girls of that type of beauty, except in one respect.
She was perfect in her manner and bearing, and they were not. A mere
distinguishing peculiarity, by catching the eye, is often read as the
pervading characteristic, and she appeared to him no less than
perfection throughout--transcending her rural rivals in very nature.
Graye did a thing the blissfulness of which was only eclipsed by its
hazardousness. He loved her at first sight.
His introductions had led him into contact with Cytherea and her
parents two or three times on the first week of his arrival in London,
and accident and a lover's contrivance brought them together as
frequently the week following. The parents liked young Graye, and
having few friends (for their equals in blood were their superiors in
position), he was received on very generous terms. His passion for
Cytherea grew not only strong, but ineffably exalted: she, without
positively encouraging him, tacitly assented to his schemes for being
near her. Her father and mother seemed to have lost all confidence in
nobility of birth, without money to give effect to its presence, and
looked upon the budding consequence of the young people's reciprocal
glances with placidity, if not actual favour.
Graye's whole impassioned dream terminated in a sad and unaccountable
episode. After passing through three weeks of sweet experience, he had
arrived at the last stage--a kind of moral Gaza --before plunging into
an emotional desert. The second week in January had come round, and it
was necessary for the young architect to leave town.
Throughout his acquaintanceship with the lady of his heart there had
been this marked peculiarity in her love: she had delighted in his
presence as a sweetheart should do, yet from first to last she had
repressed all recognition of the true nature of the thread which drew
them together, blinding herself to its meaning and only natural
tendency, and appearing to dread his announcement of them. The present
seemed enough for her without cumulative hope: usually, even if love
is in itself an end, it must be regarded as a beginning to be enjoyed.
In spite of evasions as an obstacle, and in consequence of them as a
spur, he would put the matter off no longer. It was evening. He took
her into a little conservatory on the landing, and there among the
evergreens, by the light of a few tiny lamps, infinitely enhancing the
freshness and beauty of the leaves, he made the declaration of a love
as fresh and beautiful as they.
'My love--my darling, be my wife!'
She seemed like one just awakened. 'Ah--we must part now!' she
faltered, in a voice of anguish. 'I will write to you.' She loosened
her hand and rushed away.
In a wild fever Graye went home and watched for the next morning. Who
shall express his misery and wonder when a note containing these words
was put into his hand?
'Good-bye; good-bye for ever. As recognized lovers something divides
us eternally. Forgive me--I should have told you before; but your love
was sweet! Never mention me.'
That very day, and as it seemed, to put an end to a painful condition
of things, daughter and parents left London to pay off a promised
visit to a relative in a western county. No message or letter of
entreaty could wring from her any explanation. She begged him not to
follow her, and the most bewildering point was that her father and
mother appeared, from the tone of a letter Graye received from them,
as vexed and sad as he at this sudden renunciation. One thing was
plain: without admitting her reason as valid, they knew what that
reason was, and did not intend to reveal it.
A week from that day Ambrose Graye left his friend Huntway's house and
saw no more of the Love he mourned. From time to time his friend
answered any inquiry Graye made by letter respecting her. But very
poor food to a lover is intelligence of a mistress filtered through a
friend. Huntway could tell nothing definitely. He said he believed
there had been some prior flirtation between Cytherea and her cousin,
an officer of the line, two or three years before Graye met her, which
had suddenly been terminated by the cousin's departure for India, and
the young lady's travelling on the Continent with her parents the
whole of the ensuing summer, on account of delicate health. Eventually
Huntway said that circumstances had rendered Graye's attachment more
hopeless still. Cytherea's mother had unexpectedly inherited a large
fortune and estates in the west of England by the rapid fall of some
intervening lives. This had caused their removal from the small house
in Bloomsbury, and, as it appeared, a renunciation of their old
friends in that quarter.
Young Graye concluded that his Cytherea had forgotten him and his
love. But he could not forget her.
2. FROM 1843 TO 1861
Eight years later, feeling lonely and depressed--a man without
relatives, with many acquaintances but no friends--Ambrose Graye met a
young lady of a different kind, fairly endowed with money and good
gifts. As to caring very deeply for another woman after the loss of
Cytherea, it was an absolute impossibility with him. With all, the
beautiful things of the earth become more dear as they elude pursuit;
but with some natures utter elusion is the one special event which
will make a passing love permanent for ever.
This second young lady and Graye were married. That he did not, first
or last, love his wife as he should have done, was known to all; but
few knew that his unmanageable heart could never be weaned from
useless repining at the loss of its first idol.
His character to some extent deteriorated, as emotional constitutions
will under the long sense of disappointment at having missed their
imagined destiny. And thus, though naturally of a gentle and pleasant
disposition, he grew to be not so tenderly regarded by his
acquaintances as it is the lot of some of those persons to be. The
winning and sanguine receptivity of his early life developed by
degrees a moody nervousness, and when not picturing prospects drawn
from baseless hope he was the victim of indescribable depression. The
practical issue of such a condition was improvidence, originally
almost an unconscious improvidence, for every debt incurred had been
mentally paid off with a religious exactness from the treasures of
expectation before mentioned. But as years revolved, the same course
was continued from the lack of spirit sufficient for shifting out of
an old groove when it has been found to lead to disaster.
In the year 1861 his wife died, leaving him a widower with two
children. The elder, a son named Owen, now just turned seventeen, was
taken from school, and initiated as pupil to the profession of
architect in his father's office. The remaining child was a daughter,
and Owen's junior by a year.
Her christian name was Cytherea, and it is easy to guess why.
3. OCTOBER THE TWELFTH, 1863
We pass over two years in order to reach the next cardinal event of
these persons' lives. The scene is still the Grayes' native town of
Hocbridge, but as it appeared on a Monday afternoon in the month of
October.
The weather was sunny and dry, but the ancient borough was to be seen
wearing one of its least attractive aspects. First on account of the
time. It was that stagnant hour of the twenty-four when the practical
garishness of Day, having escaped from the fresh long shadows and
enlivening newness of the morning, has not yet made any perceptible
advance towards acquiring those mellow and soothing tones which grace
its decline. Next, it was that stage in the progress of the week when
business--which, carried on under the gables of an old country place,
is not devoid of a romantic sparkle --was well-nigh extinguished.
Lastly, the town was intentionally bent upon being attractive by
exhibiting to an influx of visitors the local talent for dramatic
recitation, and provincial towns trying to be lively are the dullest
of dull things.
Little towns are like little children in this respect, that they
interest most when they are enacting native peculiarities unconscious
of beholders. Discovering themselves to be watched they attempt to be
entertaining by putting on an antic, and produce disagreeable
caricatures which spoil them.
The weather-stained clock-face in the low church tower standing at the
intersection of the three chief streets was expressing half-past two
to the Town Hall opposite, where the much talked-of reading from
Shakespeare was about to begin. The doors were open, and those persons
who had already assembled within the building were noticing the
entrance of the new-comers--silently criticizing their dress
--questioning the genuineness of their teeth and hair--estimating
their private means.
Among these later ones came an exceptional young maiden who glowed
amid the dulness like a single bright-red poppy in a field of brown
stubble. She wore an elegant dark jacket, lavender dress, hat with
grey strings and trimmings, and gloves of a colour to harmonize. She
lightly walked up the side passage of the room, cast a slight glance
around, and entered the seat pointed out to her.
The young girl was Cytherea Graye; her age was now about eighteen.
During her entry, and at various times whilst sitting in her seat and
listening to the reader on the platform, her personal appearance
formed an interesting subject of study for several neighbouring eyes.
Her face was exceedingly attractive, though artistically less perfect
than her figure, which approached unusually near to the standard of
faultlessness. But even this feature of hers yielded the palm to the
gracefulness of her movement, which was fascinating and delightful to
an extreme degree.
Indeed, motion was her speciality, whether shown on its most extended
scale of bodily progression, or minutely, as in the uplifting of her
eyelids, the bending of her fingers, the pouting of her lip. The
carriage of her head--motion within motion--a glide upon a glide--was
as delicate as that of a magnetic needle. And this flexibility and
elasticity had never been taught her by rule, nor even been acquired
by observation, but, nullo cultu, had naturally developed itself with
her years. In childhood, a stone or stalk in the way, which had been
the inevitable occasion of a fall to her playmates, had usually left
her safe and upright on her feet after the narrowest escape by
oscillations and whirls for the preservation of her balance. At mixed
Christmas parties, when she numbered but twelve or thirteen years, and
was heartily despised on that account by lads who deemed themselves
men, her apt lightness in the dance covered this incompleteness in her
womanhood, and compelled the self-same youths in spite of resolutions
to seize upon her childish figure as a partner whom they could not
afford to contemn. And in later years, when the instincts of her sex
had shown her this point as the best and rarest feature in her
external self, she was not found wanting in attention to the
cultivation of finish in its details.
Her hair rested gaily upon her shoulders in curls and was of a shining
corn yellow in the high lights, deepening to a definite nut-brown as
each curl wound round into the shade. She had eyes of a sapphire hue,
though rather darker than the gem ordinarily appears; they possessed
the affectionate and liquid sparkle of loyalty and good faith as
distinguishable from that harder brightness which seems to express
faithfulness only to the object confronting them.
But to attempt to gain a view of her--or indeed of any fascinating
woman--from a measured category, is as difficult as to appreciate the
effect of a landscape by exploring it at night with a lantern --or of
a full chord of music by piping the notes in succession. Nevertheless
it may readily be believed from the description here ventured, that
among the many winning phases of her aspect, these were particularly
striking:--
During pleasant doubt, when her eyes brightened stealthily and smiled
(as eyes will smile) as distinctly as her lips, and in the space of a
single instant expressed clearly the whole round of degrees of
expectancy which lie over the wide expanse between Yea and Nay.
During the telling of a secret, which was involuntarily accompanied by
a sudden minute start, and ecstatic pressure of the listener's arm,
side, or neck, as the position and degree of intimacy dictated.
When anxiously regarding one who possessed her affections.
She suddenly assumed the last-mentioned bearing in the progress of the
present entertainment. Her glance was directed out of the window.
Why the particulars of a young lady's presence at a very mediocre
performance were prevented from dropping into the oblivion which their
intrinsic insignificance would naturally have involved--why they were
remembered and individualized by herself and others through after
years--was simply that she unknowingly stood, as it were, upon the
extreme posterior edge of a tract in her life, in which the real
meaning of Taking Thought had never been known. It was the last hour
of experience she ever enjoyed with a mind entirely free from a
knowledge of that labyrinth into which she stepped immediately
afterwards--to continue a perplexed course along its mazes for the
greater portion of twenty-nine subsequent months.
The Town Hall, in which Cytherea sat, was a building of brown stone,
and through one of the windows could be seen from the interior of the
room the housetops and chimneys of the adjacent street, and also the
upper part of a neighbouring church spire, now in course of completion
under the superintendence of Miss Graye's father, the architect to the
work.
That the top of this spire should be visible from her position in the
room was a fact which Cytherea's idling eyes had discovered with some
interest, and she was now engaged in watching the scene that was being
enacted about its airy summit. Round the conical stonework rose a cage
of scaffolding against the blue sky, and upon this stood five
men--four in clothes as white as the new erection close beneath their
hands, the fifth in the ordinary dark suit of a gentleman.
The four working-men in white were three masons and a mason's
labourer. The fifth man was the architect, Mr. Graye. He had been
giving directions as it seemed, and retiring as far as the narrow
footway allowed, stood perfectly still.
The picture thus presented to a spectator in the Town Hall was curious
and striking. It was an illuminated miniature, framed in by the dark
margin of the window, the keen-edged shadiness of which emphasized by
contrast the softness of the objects enclosed.
The height of the spire was about one hundred and twenty feet, and the
five men engaged thereon seemed entirely removed from the sphere and
experiences of ordinary human beings. They appeared little larger than
pigeons, and made their tiny movements with a soft, spirit-like
silentness. One idea above all others was conveyed to the mind of a
person on the ground by their aspect, namely, concentration of
purpose: that they were indifferent to--even unconscious of--the
distracted world beneath them, and all that moved upon it. They never
looked off the scaffolding.
Then one of them turned; it was Mr. Graye. Again he stood motionless,
with attention to the operations of the others. He appeared to be lost
in reflection, and had directed his face towards a new stone they were
lifting.
'Why does he stand like that?' the young lady thought at length--up to
that moment as listless and careless as one of the ancient Tarentines,
who, on such an afternoon as this, watched from the Theatre the entry
into their Harbour of a power that overturned the State.
She moved herself uneasily. 'I wish he would come down,' she
whispered, still gazing at the skybacked picture. 'It is so dangerous
to be absent-minded up there.'
When she had done murmuring the words her father indecisively laid
hold of one of the scaffold-poles, as if to test its strength, then
let it go and stepped back. In stepping, his foot slipped. An instant
of doubling forward and sideways, and he reeled off into the air,
immediately disappearing downwards.
His agonized daughter rose to her feet by a convulsive movement. Her
lips parted, and she gasped for breath. She could utter no sound. One
by one the people about her, unconscious of what had happened, turned
their heads, and inquiry and alarm became visible upon their faces at
the sight of the poor child. A moment longer, and she fell to the
floor.
The next impression of which Cytherea had any consciousness was of
being carried from a strange vehicle across the pavement to the steps
of her own house by her brother and an older man. Recollection of what
had passed evolved itself an instant later, and just as they entered
the door--through which another and sadder burden had been carried but
a few instants before--her eyes caught sight of the south-western sky,
and, without heeding, saw white sunlight shining in shaft-like lines
from a rift in a slaty cloud. Emotions will attach themselves to
scenes that are simultaneous--however foreign in essence these scenes
may be--as chemical waters will crystallize on twigs and wires. Even
after that time any mental agony brought less vividly to Cytherea's
mind the scene from the Town Hall windows than sunlight streaming in
shaft-like lines.
4. OCTOBER THE NINETEENTH
When death enters a house, an element of sadness and an element of
horror accompany it. Sadness, from the death itself: horror, from the
clouds of blackness we designedly labour to introduce.
The funeral had taken place. Depressed, yet resolved in his demeanour,
Owen Graye sat before his father's private escritoire, engaged in
turning out and unfolding a heterogeneous collection of
papers--forbidding and inharmonious to the eye at all times--most of
all to one under the influence of a great grief. Laminae of white
paper tied with twine were indiscriminately intermixed with other
white papers bounded by black edges--these with blue foolscap wrapped
round with crude red tape.
The bulk of these letters, bills, and other documents were submitted
to a careful examination, by which the appended particulars were
ascertained:--
First, that their father's income from professional sources had been
very small, amounting to not more than half their expenditure; and
that his own and his wife's property, upon which he had relied for the
balance, had been sunk and lost in unwise loans to unscrupulous men,
who had traded upon their father's too open-hearted trustfulness.
Second, that finding his mistake, he had endeavoured to regain his
standing by the illusory path of speculation. The most notable
instance of this was the following. He had been induced, when at
Plymouth in the autumn of the previous year, to venture all his spare
capital on the bottomry security of an Italian brig which had put into
the harbour in distress. The profit was to be considerable, so was the
risk. There turned out to be no security whatever. The circumstances
of the case tendered it the most unfortunate speculation that a man
like himself--ignorant of all such matters--could possibly engage in.
The vessel went down, and all Mr. Graye's money with it.
Third, that these failures had left him burdened with debts he knew
not how to meet; so that at the time of his death even the few pounds
lying to his account at the bank were his only in name.
Fourth, that the loss of his wife two years earlier had awakened him
to a keen sense of his blindness, and of his duty by his children. He
had then resolved to reinstate by unflagging zeal in the pursuit of
his profession, and by no speculation, at least a portion of the
little fortune he had let go.
Cytherea was frequently at her brother's elbow during these
examinations. She often remarked sadly--
'Poor papa failed to fulfil his good intention for want of time,
didn't he, Owen? And there was an excuse for his past, though he never
would claim it. I never forget that original disheartening blow, and
how that from it sprang all the ills of his life --everything
connected with his gloom, and the lassitude in business we used so
often to see about him.'
'I remember what he said once,' returned the brother, 'when I sat up
late with him. He said, "Owen, don't love too blindly: blindly you
will love if you love at all, but a little care is still possible to a
well-disciplined heart. May that heart be yours as it was not mine,"
father said. "Cultivate the art of renunciation." And I am going to,
Cytherea.'
'And once mamma said that an excellent woman was papa's ruin, because
he did not know the way to give her up when he had lost her. I wonder
where she is now, Owen? We were told not to try to find out anything
about her. Papa never told us her name, did he?'
'That was by her own request, I believe. But never mind her; she was
not our mother.'
The love affair which had been Ambrose Graye's disheartening blow was
precisely of that nature which lads take little account of, but girls
ponder in their hearts.