On that self-same mid-day, whilst Edward was proceeding to Tolchurch by
the footpath across the fields, Owen Graye had left the village and
was riding along the turnpike road to the county-town, that he might
ascertain the exact truth of the strange rumour which had reached him
concerning Manston. Not to disquiet his sister, he had said nothing to
her of the matter.
She sat by the window reading. From her position she could see up the
lane for a distance of at least a hundred yards. Passers-by were so rare
in this retired nook, that the eyes of those who dwelt by the wayside
were invariably lifted to every one on the road, great and small, as to
a novelty.
A man in a brown smock-frock turned the corner and came towards the
house. It being market-day at Casterbridge, the village was nearly
deserted, and more than this, the old farm-house in which Owen and his
sister were staying, stood, as has been stated, apart from the body of
cottages. The man did not look respectable; Cytherea arose and bolted
the door.
Unfortunately he was near enough to see her cross the room. He advanced
to the door, knocked, and, receiving no answer, came to the window; he
next pressed his face against the glass, peering in.
Cytherea’s experience at that moment was probably as trying a one as
ever fell to the lot of a gentlewoman to endure. She recognized in the
peering face that of the man she had married.
But not a movement was made by her, not a sound escaped her. Her fear
was great; but had she known the truth--that the man outside, feeling
he had nothing on earth to lose by any act, was in the last stage of
recklessness, terrified nature must have given way.
‘Cytherea,’ he said, ‘let me come in: I am your husband.’
‘No,’ she replied, still not realizing the magnitude of her peril. ‘If
you want to speak to us, wait till my brother comes.’
‘O, he’s not at home? Cytherea, I can’t live without you! All my sin has
been because I love you so! Will you fly with me? I have money enough
for us both--only come with me.’
‘Not now--not now.’
‘I am your husband, I tell you, and I must come in.’
‘You cannot,’ she said faintly. His words began to terrify her.
‘I will, I say!’ he exclaimed. ‘Will you let me in, I ask once more?’
‘No--I will not,’ said Cytherea.
‘Then I will let myself in!’ he answered resolutely. ‘I will, if I die
for it!’
The windows were glazed in lattice panes of leadwork, hung in casements.
He broke one of the panes with a stone, thrust his hand through the
hole, unfastened the latch which held the casement close, and began
opening the window.
Instantly the shutters flew together with a slam, and were barred with
desperate quickness by Cytherea on the inside.
‘Damn you!’ he exclaimed.
He ran round to the back of the house. His impatience was greater now:
he thrust his fist through the pantry window at one blow, and opened
it in the same way as the former one had been opened, before the
terror-stricken girl was aware that he had gone round. In an instant
he stood in the pantry, advanced to the front room where she was, flung
back the shutters, and held out his arms to embrace her.
In extremely trying moments of bodily or mental pain, Cytherea either
flushed hot or faded pale, according to the state of her constitution
at the moment. Now she burned like fire from head to foot, and this
preserved her consciousness.
Never before had the poor child’s natural agility served her in such
good stead as now. A heavy oblong table stood in the middle of the room.
Round this table she flew, keeping it between herself and Manston, her
large eyes wide open with terror, their dilated pupils constantly fixed
upon Manston’s, to read by his expression whether his next intention was
to dart to the right or the left.
Even he, at that heated moment, could not endure the expression of
unutterable agony which shone from that extraordinary gaze of hers.
It had surely been given her by God as a means of defence. Manston
continued his pursuit with a lowered eye.
The panting and maddened desperado--blind to everything but the capture
of his wife--went with a rush under the table: she went over it like
a bird. He went heavily over it: she flew under it, and was out at the
other side.
‘One on her youth and pliant limbs relies,
One on his sinews and his giant size.’
But his superior strength was sure to tire her down in the long-run.
She felt her weakness increasing with the quickness of her breath; she
uttered a wild scream, which in its heartrending intensity seemed to
echo for miles.
At the same juncture her hair became unfastened, and rolled down about
her shoulders. The least accident at such critical periods is sufficient
to confuse the overwrought intelligence. She lost sight of his intended
direction for one instant, and he immediately outmanoeuvred her.
‘At last! my Cytherea!’ he cried, overturning the table, springing over
it, seizing one of the long brown tresses, pulling her towards him, and
clasping her round. She writhed downwards between his arms and breast,
and fell fainting on the floor. For the first time his action was
leisurely. He lifted her upon the sofa, exclaiming, ‘Rest there for a
while, my frightened little bird!’
And then there was an end of his triumph. He felt himself clutched by
the collar, and whizzed backwards with the force of a battering-ram
against the fireplace. Springrove, wild, red, and breathless, had sprung
in at the open window, and stood once more between man and wife.
Manston was on his legs again in an instant. A fiery glance on the one
side, a glance of pitiless justice on the other, passed between them.
It was again the meeting in the vineyard of Naboth the Jezreelite: ‘Hast
thou found me, O mine enemy? And he answered, I have found thee: because
thou hast sold thyself to work evil in the sight of the Lord.’
A desperate wrestle now began between the two men. Manston was the
taller, but there was in Edward much hard tough muscle which the
delicate flesh of the steward lacked. They flew together like the jaws
of a gin. In a minute they were both on the floor, rolling over and
over, locked in each other’s grasp as tightly as if they had been one
organic being at war with itself--Edward trying to secure Manston’s arms
with a small thong he had drawn from his pocket, Manston trying to reach
his knife.
Two characteristic noises pervaded the apartment through this momentous
space of time. One was the sharp panting of the two combatants, so
similar in each as to be undistinguishable; the other was the stroke
of their heels and toes, as they smote the floor at every contortion of
body or limbs.
Cytherea had not lost consciousness for more than half-a-minute. She
had then leapt up without recognizing that Edward was her deliverer,
unfastened the door, and rushed out, screaming wildly, ‘Come! Help! O,
help!’
Three men stood not twenty yards off, looking perplexed. They dashed
forward at her words. ‘Have you seen a shabby man with a smock-frock on
lately?’ they inquired. She pointed to the door, and ran on the same as
before.
Manston, who had just loosened himself from Edward’s grasp, seemed
at this moment to renounce his intention of pushing the conflict to a
desperate end. ‘I give it all up for life--dear life!’ he cried, with a
hoarse laugh. ‘A reckless man has a dozen lives--see how I’ll baffle you
all yet!’
He rushed out of the house, but no further. The boast was his last. In
one half-minute more he was helpless in the hands of his pursuers.
Edward staggered to his feet, and paused to recover breath. His thoughts
had never forsaken Cytherea, and his first act now was to hasten up the
lane after her. She had not gone far. He found her leaning upon a bank
by the roadside, where she had flung herself down in sheer exhaustion.
He ran up and lifted her in his arms, and thus aided she was enabled
to stand upright--clinging to him. What would Springrove have given to
imprint a kiss upon her lips then!
They walked slowly towards the house. The distressing sensation of whose
wife she was could not entirely quench the resuscitated pleasure he felt
at her grateful recognition of him, and her confiding seizure of his arm
for support. He conveyed her carefully into the house.
A quarter of an hour later, whilst she was sitting in a partially
recovered, half-dozing state in an arm-chair, Edward beside her waiting
anxiously till Graye should arrive, they saw a spring-cart pass the
door. Old and dry mud-splashes from long-forgotten rains disfigured its
wheels and sides; the varnish and paint had been scratched and dimmed;
ornament had long been forgotten in a restless contemplation of use.
Three men sat on the seat, the middle one being Manston. His hands
were bound in front of him, his eyes were set directly forward, his
countenance pallid, hard, and fixed.
Springrove had told Cytherea of Manston’s crime in a few short words. He
now said solemnly, ‘He is to die.’
‘And I cannot mourn for him,’ she replied with a shudder, leaning back
and covering her face with her hands.
In the silence that followed the two short remarks, Springrove watched
the cart round the corner, and heard the rattle of its wheels gradually
dying away as it rolled in the direction of the county-town.