Desperate Remedies
closer, ‘unless you prove that she is not my wife; and you can’t do it!’
‘This is proof,’ said Owen, holding up the paper.
‘No proof at all,’ said Manston hotly. ‘’Tis not a death-bed confession,
and those are the only things of the kind held as good evidence.’
‘Send for a lawyer,’ Owen returned, ‘and let him tell us the proper
course to adopt.’
‘Never mind the law--let me go with Owen!’ cried Cytherea, still holding
on to him. ‘You will let me go with him, won’t you, sir?’ she said,
turning appealingly to Manston.
‘We’ll have it all right and square,’ said Manston, with more quietness.
‘I have no objection to your brother sending for a lawyer, if he wants
to.’
It was getting on for twelve o’clock, but the proprietor of the hotel
had not yet gone to bed on account of the mystery on the first floor,
which was an occurrence unusual in the quiet family lodging. Owen looked
over the banisters, and saw him standing in the hall. It struck Graye
that the wisest course would be to take the landlord to a certain extent
into their confidence, appeal to his honour as a gentleman, and so on,
in order to acquire the information he wanted, and also to prevent the
episode of the evening from becoming a public piece of news. He called
the landlord up to where they stood, and told him the main facts of the
story.
The landlord was fortunately a quiet, prejudiced man, and a meditative
smoker.
‘I know the very man you want to see--the very man,’ he said, looking
at the general features of the candle-flame. ‘Sharp as a needle, and not
over-rich. Timms will put you all straight in no time--trust Timms for
that.’
‘He’s in bed by this time for certain,’ said Owen.
‘Never mind that--Timms knows me, I know him. He’ll oblige me as a
personal favour. Wait here a bit. Perhaps, too, he’s up at some party or
another--he’s a nice, jovial fellow, sharp as a needle, too; mind you,
sharp as a needle, too.’
He went downstairs, put on his overcoat, and left the house, the three
persons most concerned entering the room, and standing motionless,
awkward, and silent in the midst of it. Cytherea pictured to herself the
long weary minutes she would have to stand there, whilst a sleepy man
could be prepared for consultation, till the constraint between them
seemed unendurable to her--she could never last out the time. Owen was
annoyed that Manston had not quietly arranged with him at once; Manston
at Owen’s homeliness of idea in proposing to send for an attorney, as if
he would be a touchstone of infallible proof.
Reflection was cut short by the approach of footsteps, and in a few
moments the proprietor of the hotel entered, introducing his friend.
‘Mr. Timms has not been in bed,’ he said; ‘he had just returned from
dining with a few friends, so there’s no trouble given. To save time I
explained the matter as we came along.’
It occurred to Owen and Manston both that they might get a misty
exposition of the law from Mr. Timms at that moment of concluding dinner
with a few friends.
‘As far as I can see,’ said the lawyer, yawning, and turning his vision
inward by main force, ‘it is quite a matter for private arrangement
between the parties, whoever the parties are--at least at present. I
speak more as a father than as a lawyer, it is true, but, let the young
lady stay with her father, or guardian, safe out of shame’s way, until
the mystery is sifted, whatever the mystery is. Should the evidence
prove to be false, or trumped up by anybody to get her away from you,
her husband, you may sue them for the damages accruing from the delay.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Manston, who had completely recovered his
self-possession and common-sense; ‘let it all be settled by herself.’
Turning to Cytherea he whispered so softly that Owen did not hear the
words--
‘Do you wish to go back with your brother, dearest, and leave me here
miserable, and lonely, or will you stay with me, your own husband.’
‘I’ll go back with Owen.’
‘Very well.’ He relinquished his coaxing tone, and went on sternly: ‘And
remember this, Cytherea, I am as innocent of deception in this thing as
you are yourself. Do you believe me?’
‘I do,’ she said.
‘I had no shadow of suspicion that my first wife lived. I don’t think
she does even now. Do you believe me?’
‘I believe you,’ she said.
‘And now, good-evening,’ he continued, opening the door and politely
intimating to the three men standing by that there was no further
necessity for their remaining in his room. ‘In three days I shall claim
her.’
The lawyer and the hotel-keeper retired first. Owen, gathering up as
much of his sister’s clothing as lay about the room, took her upon his
arm, and followed them. Edward, to whom she owed everything, who had
been left standing in the street like a dog without a home, was utterly
forgotten. Owen paid the landlord and the lawyer for the trouble he had
occasioned them, looked to the packing, and went to the door.
A fly, which somewhat unaccountably was seen lingering in front of the
house, was called up, and Cytherea’s luggage put upon it.
‘Do you know of any hotel near the station that is open for night
arrivals?’ Owen inquired of the driver.
‘A place has been bespoke for you, sir, at the White Unicorn--and the
gentleman wished me to give you this.’
‘Bespoken by Springrove, who ordered the fly, of course,’ said Owen to
himself. By the light of the street-lamp he read these lines, hurriedly
traced in pencil:--
‘I have gone home by the mail-train. It is better for all parties that
I should be out of the way. Tell Cytherea that I apologize for having
caused her such unnecessary pain, as it seems I did--but it cannot be
helped now. E.S.’
Owen handed his sister into the vehicle, and told the flyman to drive
on.
‘Poor Springrove--I think we have served him rather badly,’ he said to
Cytherea, repeating the words of the note to her.
A thrill of pleasure passed through her bosom as she listened to them.
They were the genuine reproach of a lover to his mistress; the trifling
coldness of her answer to him would have been noticed by no man who
was only a friend. But, in entertaining that sweet thought, she had
forgotten herself, and her position for the instant.
Was she still Manston’s wife--that was the terrible supposition, and
her future seemed still a possible misery to her. For, on account of the
late jarring accident, a life with Manston which would otherwise have
been only a sadness, must become a burden of unutterable sorrow.
Then she thought of the misrepresentation and scandal that would
ensue if she were no wife. One cause for thankfulness accompanied the
reflection; Edward knew the truth.
They soon reached the quiet old inn, which had been selected for them
by the forethought of the man who loved her well. Here they installed
themselves for the night, arranging to go to Budmouth by the first train
the next day.
At this hour Edward Springrove was fast approaching his native county on
the wheels of the night-mail.
XIV. THE EVENTS OF FIVE WEEKS
1. FROM THE SIXTH TO THE THIRTEENTH OF JANUARY
Manston had evidently resolved to do nothing in a hurry.
This much was plain, that his earnest desire and intention was to
raise in Cytherea’s bosom no feelings of permanent aversion to him. The
instant after the first burst of disappointment had escaped him in the
hotel at Southampton, he had seen how far better it would be to lose her
presence for a week than her respect for ever.
‘She shall be mine; I will claim the young thing yet,’ he insisted. And
then he seemed to reason over methods for compassing that object, which,
to all those who were in any degree acquainted with the recent event,
appeared the least likely of possible contingencies.
He returned to Knapwater late the next day, and was preparing to call on
Miss Aldclyffe, when the conclusion forced itself upon him that nothing
would be gained by such a step. No; every action of his should be done
openly--even religiously. At least, he called on the rector, and stated
this to be his resolve.
‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Raunham, ‘it is best to proceed candidly and
fairly, or undue suspicion may fall on you. You should, in my opinion,
take active steps at once.’
‘I will do the utmost that lies in my power to clear up the mystery, and
silence the hubbub of gossip that has been set going about me. But what
can I do? They say that the man who comes first in the chain of inquiry
is not to be found--I mean the porter.’
‘I am sorry to say that he is not. When I returned from the station last
night, after seeing Owen Graye off, I went again to the cottage where
he has been lodging, to get more intelligence, as I thought. He was not
there. He had gone out at dusk, saying he would be back soon. But he has
not come back yet.’
‘I rather doubt if we shall see him again.’
‘Had I known of this, I would have done what in my flurry I did not
think of doing--set a watch upon him. But why not advertise for
your missing wife as a preliminary, consulting your solicitor in the
meantime?’
‘Advertise. I’ll think about it,’ said Manston, lingering on the word as
he pronounced it. ‘Yes, that seems a right thing--quite a right thing.’
He went home and remained moodily indoors all the next day and the
next--for nearly a week, in short. Then, one evening at dusk, he
went out with an uncertain air as to the direction of his walk, which
resulted, however, in leading him again to the rectory.
He saw Mr. Raunham. ‘Have you done anything yet?’ the rector inquired.
‘No--I have not,’ said Manston absently. ‘But I am going to set about
it.’ He hesitated, as if ashamed of some weakness he was about to
betray. ‘My object in calling was to ask if you had heard any tidings
from Budmouth of my--Cytherea. You used to speak of her as one you were
interested in.’
There was, at any rate, real sadness in Manston’s tone now, and the
rector paused to weigh his words ere he replied.
‘I have not heard directly from her,’ he said gently. ‘But her brother
has communicated with some people in the parish--’
‘The Springroves, I suppose,’ said Manston gloomily.
‘Yes; and they tell me that she is very ill, and I am sorry to say,
likely to be for some days.’
‘Surely, surely, I must go and see her!’ Manston cried.
‘I would advise you not to go,’ said Raunham. ‘But do this instead--be
as quick as you can in making a movement towards ascertaining the truth
as regards the existence of your wife. You see, Mr. Manston, an out-step
place like this is not like a city, and there is nobody to busy himself
for the good of the community; whilst poor Cytherea and her brother are
socially too dependent to be able to make much stir in the matter, which
is a greater reason still why you should be disinterestedly prompt.’
The steward murmured an assent. Still there was the same
indecision!--not the indecision of weakness--the indecision of conscious
perplexity.
On Manston’s return from this interview at the rectory, he passed the
door of the Rising Sun Inn. Finding he had no light for his cigar,
and it being three-quarters of a mile to his residence in the park, he
entered the tavern to get one. Nobody was in the outer portion of the
front room where Manston stood, but a space round the fire was screened
off from the remainder, and inside the high oak settle, forming a part
of the screen, he heard voices conversing. The speakers had not noticed
his footsteps, and continued their discourse.
One of the two he recognized as a well-known night-poacher, the man
who had met him with tidings of his wife’s death on the evening of the
conflagration. The other seemed to be a stranger following the same
mode of life. The conversation was carried on in the emphatic and