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Desperate Remedies

Thomas Hardy

V. THE EVENTS OF ONE DAY

1. AUGUST THE EIGHTH. MORNING AND AFTERNOON

At post-time on that following Monday morning, Cytherea watched so
anxiously for the postman, that as the time which must bring him
narrowed less and less her vivid expectation had only a degree less
tangibility than his presence itself. In another second his form
came into view. He brought two letters for Cytherea.

One from Miss Aldclyffe, simply stating that she wished Cytherea to
come on trial: that she would require her to be at Knapwater House
by Monday evening.

The other was from Edward Springrove. He told her that she was the
bright spot of his life: that her existence was far dearer to him
than his own: that he had never known what it was to love till he
had met her. True, he had felt passing attachments to other faces
from time to time; but they all had been weak inclinations towards
those faces as they then appeared. He loved her past and future, as
well as her present. He pictured her as a child: he loved her. He
pictured her of sage years: he loved her. He pictured her in
trouble; he loved her. Homely friendship entered into his love for
her, without which all love was evanescent.

He would make one depressing statement. Uncontrollable
circumstances (a long history, with which it was impossible to
acquaint her at present) operated to a certain extent as a drag upon
his wishes. He had felt this more strongly at the time of their
parting than he did now--and it was the cause of his abrupt
behaviour, for which he begged her to forgive him. He saw now an
honourable way of freeing himself, and the perception had prompted
him to write. In the meantime might he indulge in the hope of
possessing her on some bright future day, when by hard labour
generated from her own encouraging words, he had placed himself in a
position she would think worthy to be shared with him?

Dear little letter; she huddled it up. So much more important a
love-letter seems to a girl than to a man. Springrove was
unconsciously clever in his letters, and a man with a talent of that
kind may write himself up to a hero in the mind of a young woman who
loves him without knowing much about him. Springrove already stood
a cubit higher in her imagination than he did in his shoes.

During the day she flitted about the room in an ecstasy of pleasure,
packing the things and thinking of an answer which should be worthy
of the tender tone of the question, her love bubbling from her
involuntarily, like prophesyings from a prophet.

In the afternoon Owen went with her to the railway-station, and put
her in the train for Carriford Road, the station nearest to
Knapwater House.

Half-an-hour later she stepped out upon the platform, and found
nobody there to receive her--though a pony-carriage was waiting
outside. In two minutes she saw a melancholy man in cheerful livery
running towards her from a public-house close adjoining, who proved
to be the servant sent to fetch her. There are two ways of getting
rid of sorrows: one by living them down, the other by drowning
them. The coachman drowned his.

He informed her that her luggage would be fetched by a spring-waggon
in about half-an-hour; then helped her into the chaise and drove
off.

Her lover's letter, lying close against her neck, fortified her
against the restless timidity she had previously felt concerning
this new undertaking, and completely furnished her with the
confident ease of mind which is required for the critical
observation of surrounding objects. It was just that stage in the
slow decline of the summer days, when the deep, dark, and vacuous
hot-weather shadows are beginning to be replaced by blue ones that
have a surface and substance to the eye. They trotted along the
turnpike road for a distance of about a mile, which brought them
just outside the village of Carriford, and then turned through large
lodge-gates, on the heavy stone piers of which stood a pair of
bitterns cast in bronze. They then entered the park and wound along
a drive shaded by old and drooping lime-trees, not arranged in the
form of an avenue, but standing irregularly, sometimes leaving the
track completely exposed to the sky, at other times casting a shade
over it, which almost approached gloom--the under surface of the
lowest boughs hanging at a uniform level of six feet above the
grass--the extreme height to which the nibbling mouths of the cattle
could reach.

'Is that the house?' said Cytherea expectantly, catching sight of a
grey gable between the trees, and losing it again.

'No; that's the old manor-house--or rather all that's left of it.
The Aldycliffes used to let it sometimes, but it was oftener empty.
'Tis now divided into three cottages. Respectable people didn't
care to live there.'

'Why didn't they?'

'Well, 'tis so awkward and unhandy. You see so much of it has been
pulled down, and the rooms that are left won't do very well for a
small residence. 'Tis so dismal, too, and like most old houses
stands too low down in the hollow to be healthy.'

'Do they tell any horrid stories about it?'

'No, not a single one.'

'Ah, that's a pity.'

'Yes, that's what I say. 'Tis jest the house for a nice ghastly
hair-on-end story, that would make the parish religious. Perhaps it
will have one some day to make it complete; but there's not a word
of the kind now. There, I wouldn't live there for all that. In
fact, I couldn't. O no, I couldn't.'

'Why couldn't you?'

'The sounds.'

'What are they?'

'One is the waterfall, which stands so close by that you can hear
that there waterfall in every room of the house, night or day, ill
or well. 'Tis enough to drive anybody mad: now hark.'

He stopped the horse. Above the slight common sounds in the air
came the unvarying steady rush of falling water from some spot
unseen on account of the thick foliage of the grove.

'There's something awful in the timing o' that sound, ain't there,
miss?'

'When you say there is, there really seems to be. You said there
were two--what is the other horrid sound?'

'The pumping-engine. That's close by the Old House, and sends water
up the hill and all over the Great House. We shall hear that
directly. . . . There, now hark again.'

From the same direction down the dell they could now hear the
whistling creak of cranks, repeated at intervals of half-a-minute,
with a sousing noise between each: a creak, a souse, then another
creak, and so on continually.

'Now if anybody could make shift to live through the other sounds,
these would finish him off, don't you think so, miss? That machine
goes on night and day, summer and winter, and is hardly ever greased
or visited. Ah, it tries the nerves at night, especially if you are
not very well; though we don't often hear it at the Great House.'

'That sound is certainly very dismal. They might have the wheel
greased. Does Miss Aldclyffe take any interest in these things?'

'Well, scarcely; you see her father doesn't attend to that sort of
thing as he used to. The engine was once quite his hobby. But now
he's getten old and very seldom goes there.'

'How many are there in family?'

'Only her father and herself. He's a' old man of seventy.'

'I had thought that Miss Aldclyffe was sole mistress of the
property, and lived here alone.'

'No, m--' The coachman was continually checking himself thus, being
about to style her miss involuntarily, and then recollecting that he
was only speaking to the new lady's-maid.

'She will soon be mistress, however, I am afraid,' he continued, as
if speaking by a spirit of prophecy denied to ordinary humanity.
'The poor old gentleman has decayed very fast lately.' The man then
drew a long breath.

'Why did you breathe sadly like that?' said Cytherea.

'Ah! . . . When he's dead peace will be all over with us old
servants. I expect to see the old house turned inside out.'

'She will marry, do you mean?'

'Marry--not she! I wish she would. No, in her soul she's as
solitary as Robinson Crusoe, though she has acquaintances in plenty,
if not relations. There's the rector, Mr. Raunham--he's a relation
by marriage--yet she's quite distant towards him. And people say
that if she keeps single there will be hardly a life between Mr.
Raunham and the heirship of the estate. Dang it, she don't care.
She's an extraordinary picture of womankind--very extraordinary.'

'In what way besides?'

'You'll know soon enough, miss. She has had seven lady's-maids this
last twelvemonth. I assure you 'tis one body's work to fetch 'em
from the station and take 'em back again. The Lord must be a
neglectful party at heart, or he'd never permit such overbearen
goings on!'

'Does she dismiss them directly they come!'

'Not at all--she never dismisses them--they go theirselves. Ye see
'tis like this. She's got a very quick temper; she flees in a
passion with them for nothing at all; next mornen they come up and
say they are going; she's sorry for it and wishes they'd stay, but
she's as proud as a lucifer, and her pride won't let her say,
"Stay," and away they go. 'Tis like this in fact. If you say to
her about anybody, "Ah, poor thing!" she says, "Pooh! indeed!" If
you say, "Pooh, indeed!" "Ah, poor thing!" she says directly. She
hangs the chief baker, as mid be, and restores the chief butler, as
mid be, though the devil but Pharaoh herself can see the difference
between 'em.'

Cytherea was silent. She feared she might be again a burden to her
brother.

'However, you stand a very good chance,' the man went on, 'for I
think she likes you more than common. I have never known her send
the pony-carriage to meet one before; 'tis always the trap, but this
time she said, in a very particular ladylike tone, "Roobert, gaow
with the pony-kerriage.". . . There, 'tis true, pony and carriage
too are getten rather shabby now,' he added, looking round upon the
vehicle as if to keep Cytherea's pride within reasonable limits.

''Tis to be hoped you'll please in dressen her to-night.'

'Why to-night?'

'There's a dinner-party of seventeen; 'tis her father's birthday,
and she's very particular about her looks at such times. Now see;
this is the house. Livelier up here, isn't it, miss?'

They were now on rising ground, and had just emerged from a clump of
trees. Still a little higher than where they stood was situated the
mansion, called Knapwater House, the offices gradually losing
themselves among the trees behind.

2. EVENING

The house was regularly and substantially built of clean grey
freestone throughout, in that plainer fashion of Greek classicism
which prevailed at the latter end of the last century, when the
copyists called designers had grown weary of fantastic variations in
the Roman orders. The main block approximated to a square on the
ground plan, having a projection in the centre of each side,
surmounted by a pediment. From each angle of the inferior side ran
a line of buildings lower than the rest, turning inwards again at
their further end, and forming within them a spacious open court,
within which resounded an echo of astonishing clearness. These
erections were in their turn backed by ivy-covered ice-houses,
laundries, and stables, the whole mass of subsidiary buildings being
half buried beneath close-set shrubs and trees.

There was opening sufficient through the foliage on the right hand
to enable her on nearer approach to form an idea of the arrangement
of the remoter or lawn front also. The natural features and contour
of this quarter of the site had evidently dictated the position of
the house primarily, and were of the ordinary, and upon the whole,
most satisfactory kind, namely, a broad, graceful slope running from
the terrace beneath the walls to the margin of a placid lake lying
below, upon the surface of which a dozen swans and a green punt
floated at leisure. An irregular wooded island stood in the midst
of the lake; beyond this and the further margin of the water were
plantations and greensward of varied outlines, the trees
heightening, by half veiling, the softness of the exquisite
landscape stretching behind.

The glimpses she had obtained of this portion were now checked by
the angle of the building. In a minute or two they reached the side
door, at which Cytherea alighted. She was welcomed by an elderly
woman of lengthy smiles and general pleasantness, who announced
herself to be Mrs. Morris, the housekeeper.

'Mrs. Graye, I believe?' she said.

'I am not--O yes, yes, we are all mistresses,' said Cytherea,
smiling, but forcedly. The title accorded her seemed disagreeably
like the first slight scar of a brand, and she thought of Owen's
prophecy.

Mrs. Morris led her into a comfortable parlour called The Room.
Here tea was made ready, and Cytherea sat down, looking, whenever
occasion allowed, at Mrs. Morris with great interest and curiosity,
to discover, if possible, something in her which should give a clue
to the secret of her knowledge of herself, and the recommendation
based upon it. But nothing was to be learnt, at any rate just then.
Mrs. Morris was perpetually getting up, feeling in her pockets,
going to cupboards, leaving the room two or three minutes, and
trotting back again.

'You'll excuse me, Mrs. Graye,' she said, 'but 'tis the old
gentleman's birthday, and they always have a lot of people to dinner
on that day, though he's getting up in years now. However, none of
them are sleepers--she generally keeps the house pretty clear of
lodgers (being a lady with no intimate friends, though many
acquaintances), which, though it gives us less to do, makes it all
the duller for the younger maids in the house.' Mrs. Morris then
proceeded to give in fragmentary speeches an outline of the
constitution and government of the estate.

'Now, are you sure you have quite done tea? Not a bit or drop more?
Why, you've eaten nothing, I'm sure. . . . Well, now, it is rather
inconvenient that the other maid is not here to show you the ways of
the house a little, but she left last Saturday, and Miss Aldclyffe
has been making shift with poor old clumsy me for a maid all
yesterday and this morning. She is not come in yet. I expect she
will ask for you, Mrs. Graye, the first thing. . . . I was going to
say that if you have really done tea, I will take you upstairs, and
show you through the wardrobes--Miss Aldclyffe's things are not laid
out for to-night yet.'

She preceded Cytherea upstairs, pointed out her own room, and then
took her into Miss Aldclyffe's dressing-room, on the first-floor;
where, after explaining the whereabouts of various articles of
apparel, the housekeeper left her, telling her that she had an hour
yet upon her hands before dressing-time. Cytherea laid out upon the
bed in the next room all that she had been told would be required
that evening, and then went again to the little room which had been
appropriated to herself.

Here she sat down by the open window, leant out upon the sill like
another Blessed Damozel, and listlessly looked down upon the
brilliant pattern of colours formed by the flower-beds on the lawn
--now richly crowded with late summer blossom. But the vivacity of
spirit which had hitherto enlivened her, was fast ebbing under the
pressure of prosaic realities, and the warm scarlet of the
geraniums, glowing most conspicuously, and mingling with the vivid
cold red and green of the verbenas, the rich depth of the dahlia,
and the ripe mellowness of the calceolaria, backed by the pale hue
of a flock of meek sheep feeding in the open park, close to the
other side of the fence, were, to a great extent, lost upon her
eyes. She was thinking that nothing seemed worth while; that it was
possible she might die in a workhouse; and what did it matter? The
petty, vulgar details of servitude that she had just passed through,
her dependence upon the whims of a strange woman, the necessity of
quenching all individuality of character in herself, and
relinquishing her own peculiar tastes to help on the wheel of this
alien establishment, made her sick and sad, and she almost longed to
pursue some free, out-of-doors employment, sleep under trees or a
hut, and know no enemy but winter and cold weather, like shepherds
and cowkeepers, and birds and animals--ay, like the sheep she saw
there under her window. She looked sympathizingly at them for
several minutes, imagining their enjoyment of the rich grass.

'Yes--like those sheep,' she said aloud; and her face reddened with
surprise at a discovery she made that very instant.

The flock consisted of some ninety or a hundred young stock ewes:
the surface of their fleece was as rounded and even as a cushion,
and white as milk. Now she had just observed that on the left
buttock of every one of them were marked in distinct red letters the
initials 'E. S.'

'E. S.' could bring to Cytherea's mind only one thought; but that
immediately and for ever--the name of her lover, Edward Springrove.

'O, if it should be--!' She interrupted her words by a resolve.
Miss Aldclyffe's carriage at the same moment made its appearance in
the drive; but Miss Aldclyffe was not her object now. It was to
ascertain to whom the sheep belonged, and to set her surmise at rest
one way or the other. She flew downstairs to Mrs. Morris.

'Whose sheep are those in the park, Mrs. Morris?'

'Farmer Springrove's.'

'What Farmer Springrove is that?' she said quickly.

'Why, surely you know? Your friend, Farmer Springrove, the
cider-maker, and who keeps the Three Tranters Inn; who recommended
you to me when he came in to see me the other day?'

Cytherea's mother-wit suddenly warned her in the midst of her
excitement that it was necessary not to betray the secret of her
love. 'O yes,' she said, 'of course.' Her thoughts had run as
follows in that short interval:--

'Farmer Springrove is Edward's father, and his name is Edward too.

'Edward knew I was going to advertise for a situation of some kind.

'He watched the Times, and saw it, my address being attached.

'He thought it would be excellent for me to be here that we might
meet whenever he came home.

'He told his father that I might be recommended as a lady's-maid;
and he knew my brother and myself.

'His father told Mrs. Morris; Mrs. Morris told Miss Aldclyffe.'

The whole chain of incidents that drew her there was plain, and
there was no such thing as chance in the matter. It was all
Edward's doing.

The sound of a bell was heard. Cytherea did not heed it, and still
continued in her reverie.

'That's Miss Aldclyffe's bell,' said Mrs. Morris.

'I suppose it is,' said the young woman placidly.

'Well, it means that you must go up to her,' the matron continued,
in a tone of surprise.

Cytherea felt a burning heat come over her, mingled with a sudden
irritation at Mrs. Morris's hint. But the good sense which had
recognized stern necessity prevailed over rebellious independence;
the flush passed, and she said hastily--

'Yes, yes; of course, I must go to her when she pulls the bell
--whether I want to or no.'

However, in spite of this painful reminder of her new position in
life, Cytherea left the apartment in a mood far different from the
gloomy sadness of ten minutes previous. The place felt like home to
her now; she did not mind the pettiness of her occupation, because
Edward evidently did not mind it; and this was Edward's own spot.
She found time on her way to Miss Aldclyffe's dressing-room to
hurriedly glide out by a side door, and look for a moment at the
unconscious sheep bearing the friendly initials. She went up to
them to try to touch one of the flock, and felt vexed that they all
stared sceptically at her kind advances, and then ran pell-mell down
the hill. Then, fearing any one should discover her childish
movements, she slipped indoors again, and ascended the staircase,
catching glimpses, as she passed, of silver-buttoned footmen, who
flashed about the passages like lightning.

Miss Aldclyffe's dressing-room was an apartment which, on a casual
survey, conveyed an impression that it was available for almost any
purpose save the adornment of the feminine person. In its hours of
perfect order nothing pertaining to the toilet was visible; even the
inevitable mirrors with their accessories were arranged in a roomy
recess not noticeable from the door, lighted by a window of its own,
called the dressing-window.

The washing-stand figured as a vast oak chest, carved with grotesque
Renaissance ornament. The dressing table was in appearance
something between a high altar and a cabinet piano, the surface
being richly worked in the same style of semi-classic decoration,
but the extraordinary outline having been arrived at by an ingenious
joiner and decorator from the neighbouring town, after months of
painful toil in cutting and fitting, under Miss Aldclyffe's
immediate eye; the materials being the remains of two or three old
cabinets the lady had found in the lumber-room. About two-thirds of
the floor was carpeted, the remaining portion being laid with
parquetry of light and dark woods.

Miss Aldclyffe was standing at the larger window, away from the
dressing-niche. She bowed, and said pleasantly, 'I am glad you have
come. We shall get on capitally, I dare say.'

Her bonnet was off. Cytherea did not think her so handsome as on
the earlier day; the queenliness of her beauty was harder and less
warm. But a worse discovery than this was that Miss Aldclyffe, with
the usual obliviousness of rich people to their dependents'
specialities, seemed to have quite forgotten Cytherea's
inexperience, and mechanically delivered up her body to her handmaid
without a thought of details, and with a mild yawn.

Everything went well at first. The dress was removed, stockings and
black boots were taken off, and silk stockings and white shoes were
put on. Miss Aldclyffe then retired to bathe her hands and face,
and Cytherea drew breath. If she could get through this first
evening, all would be right. She felt that it was unfortunate that
such a crucial test for her powers as a birthday dinner should have
been applied on the threshold of her arrival; but set to again.

Miss Aldclyffe was now arrayed in a white dressing-gown, and dropped
languidly into an easy-chair, pushed up before the glass. The
instincts of her sex and her own practice told Cytherea the next
movement. She let Miss Aldclyffe's hair fall about her shoulders,
and began to arrange it. It proved to be all real; a satisfaction.

Miss Aldclyffe was musingly looking on the floor, and the operation
went on for some minutes in silence. At length her thoughts seemed
to turn to the present, and she lifted her eyes to the glass.

'Why, what on earth are you doing with my head?' she exclaimed, with
widely opened eyes. At the words she felt the back of Cytherea's
little hand tremble against her neck.

'Perhaps you prefer it done the other fashion, madam?' said the
maiden.

'No, no; that's the fashion right enough, but you must make more
show of my hair than that, or I shall have to buy some, which God
forbid!'

'It is how I do my own,' said Cytherea naively, and with a sweetness
of tone that would have pleased the most acrimonious under
favourable circumstances; but tyranny was in the ascendant with Miss
Aldclyffe at this moment, and she was assured of palatable food for
her vice by having felt the trembling of Cytherea's hand.

'Yours, indeed! _Your_ hair! Come, go on.' Considering that
Cytherea possessed at least five times as much of that valuable
auxiliary to woman's beauty as the lady before her, there was at the
same time some excuse for Miss Aldclyffe's outburst. She remembered
herself, however, and said more quietly, 'Now then, Graye
--By-the-bye, what do they call you downstairs?'

'Mrs. Graye,' said the handmaid.

'Then tell them not to do any such absurd thing--not but that it is
quite according to usage; but you are too young yet.'

This dialogue tided Cytherea safely onward through the hairdressing
till the flowers and diamonds were to be placed upon the lady's
brow. Cytherea began arranging them tastefully, and to the very
best of her judgment.

'That won't do,' said Miss Aldclyffe harshly.

'Why?'

'I look too young--an old dressed doll.'

'Will that, madam?'

'No, I look a fright--a perfect fright!'

'This way, perhaps?'

'Heavens! Don't worry me so.' She shut her lips like a trap.

Having once worked herself up to the belief that her head-dress was
to be a failure that evening, no cleverness of Cytherea's in
arranging it could please her. She continued in a smouldering
passion during the remainder of the performance, keeping her lips
firmly closed, and the muscles of her body rigid. Finally,
snatching up her gloves, and taking her handkerchief and fan in her
hand, she silently sailed out of the room, without betraying the
least consciousness of another woman's presence behind her.

Cytherea's fears that at the undressing this suppressed anger would
find a vent, kept her on thorns throughout the evening. She tried
to read; she could not. She tried to sew; she could not. She tried
to muse; she could not do that connectedly. 'If this is the
beginning, what will the end be!' she said in a whisper, and felt
many misgivings as to the policy of being overhasty in establishing
an independence at the expense of congruity with a cherished past.
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