Desperate Remedies
his finger upon his knee. ‘That would decidedly dispose of the second
difficulty. But his motive would be as mysterious as ever.’
Cytherea’s pictured dreads would not allow her mind to follow their
conversation. ‘She’s burnt,’ she said. ‘O yes; I fear--I fear she is!’
‘I don’t think we can seriously believe that now, after what has
happened,’ said the rector.
Still straining her thought towards the worst, ‘Then, perhaps, the first
Mrs. Manston was not his wife,’ she returned; ‘and then I should be his
wife just the same, shouldn’t I?’
‘They were married safely enough,’ said Owen. ‘There is abundance of
circumstantial evidence to prove that.’
‘Upon the whole,’ said Mr. Raunham, ‘I should advise your asking in a
straightforward way for legal proof from the steward that the present
woman is really his original wife--a thing which, to my mind, you should
have done at the outset.’ He turned to Cytherea kindly, and asked her
what made her give up her husband so unceremoniously.
She could not tell the rector of her aversion to Manston, and of her
unquenched love for Edward.
‘Your terrified state no doubt,’ he said, answering for her, in the
manner of those accustomed to the pulpit. ‘But into such a solemn
compact as marriage, all-important considerations, both legally and
morally, enter; it was your duty to have seen everything clearly proved.
Doubtless Mr. Manston is prepared with proofs, but as it concerns nobody
but yourself that her identity should be publicly established (and by
your absenteeism you act as if you were satisfied) he has not troubled
to exhibit them. Nobody else has taken the trouble to prove what does
not affect them in the least--that’s the way of the world always. You,
who should have required all things to be made clear, ran away.’
‘That was partly my doing,’ said Owen.
The same explanation--her want of love for Manston--applied here too,
but she shunned the revelation.
‘But never mind,’ added the rector, ‘it was all the greater credit to
your womanhood, perhaps. I say, then, get your brother to write a line
to Mr. Manston, saying you wish to be satisfied that all is legally
clear (in case you should want to marry again, for instance), and I have
no doubt that you will be. Or, if you would rather, I’ll write myself?’
‘O no, sir, no,’ pleaded Cytherea, beginning to blanch, and breathing
quickly. ‘Please don’t say anything. Let me live here with Owen. I am so
afraid it will turn out that I shall have to go to Knapwater and be his
wife, and I don’t want to go. Do conceal what we have told you. Let him
continue his deception--it is much the best for me.’
Mr. Raunham at length divined that her love for Manston, if it had ever
existed, had transmuted itself into a very different feeling now.
‘At any rate,’ he said, as he took his leave and mounted his mare, ‘I
will see about it. Rest content, Miss Graye, and depend upon it that I
will not lead you into difficulty.’
‘Conceal it,’ she still pleaded.
‘We’ll see--but of course I must do my duty.’
‘No--don’t do your duty!’ She looked up at him through the gloom,
illuminating her own face and eyes with the candle she held.
‘I will consider, then,’ said Mr. Raunham, sensibly moved. He turned his
horse’s head, bade them a warm adieu, and left the door.
The rector of Carriford trotted homewards under the cold and clear
March sky, its countless stars fluttering like bright birds. He was
unconscious of the scene. Recovering from the effect of Cytherea’s voice
and glance of entreaty, he laid the subject of the interview clearly
before himself.
The suspicions of Cytherea and Owen were honest, and had
foundation--that he must own. Was he--a clergyman, magistrate, and
conscientious man--justified in yielding to Cytherea’s importunities
to keep silence, because she dreaded the possibility of a return to
Manston? Was she wise in her request? Holding her present belief, and
with no definite evidence either way, she could, for one thing, never
conscientiously marry any one else. Suppose that Cytherea were Manston’s
wife--i.e., that the first wife was really burnt? The adultery of
Manston would be proved, and, Mr. Raunham thought, cruelty sufficient to
bring the case within the meaning of the statute. Suppose the new woman
was, as stated, Mr. Manston’s restored wife? Cytherea was perfectly safe
as a single woman whose marriage had been void. And if it turned out
that, though this woman was not Manston’s wife, his wife was still
living, as Owen had suggested, in America or elsewhere, Cytherea was
safe.
The first supposition opened up the worst contingency. Was she really
safe as Manston’s wife? Doubtful. But, however that might be, the
gentle, defenceless girl, whom it seemed nobody’s business to help or
defend, should be put in a track to proceed against this man. She had
but one life, and the superciliousness with which all the world now
regarded her should be compensated in some measure by the man whose
carelessness--to set him in the best light--had caused it.
Mr. Raunham felt more and more positively that his duty must be done. An
inquiry must be made into the matter. Immediately on reaching home,
he sat down and wrote a plain and friendly letter to Mr. Manston, and
despatched it at once to him by hand. Then he flung himself back in
his chair, and went on with his meditation. Was there anything in the
suspicion? There could be nothing, surely. Nothing is done by a clever
man without a motive, and what conceivable motive could Manston have for
such abnormal conduct? Corinthian that he might be, who had preyed on
virginity like St. George’s dragon, he would never have been absurd
enough to venture on such a course for the possession alone of the
woman--there was no reason for it--she was inferior to Cytherea in every
respect, physical and mental.
On the other hand, it seemed rather odd, when he analyzed the action,
that a woman who deliberately hid herself from her husband for more than
a twelvemonth should be brought back by a mere advertisement. In fact,
the whole business had worked almost too smoothly and effectually
for unpremeditated sequence. It was too much like the indiscriminate
righting of everything at the end of an old play. And there was that
curious business of the keys and watch. Her way of accounting for their
being left behind by forgetfulness had always seemed to him rather
forced. The only unforced explanation was that suggested by the
newspaper writers--that she left them behind on purpose to blind people
as to her escape, a motive which would have clashed with the possibility
of her being fished back by an advertisement, as the present woman had
been. Again, there were the two charred bones. He shuffled the books and
papers in his study, and walked about the room, restlessly musing on the
same subject. The parlour-maid entered.
‘Can young Mr. Springrove from London see you to-night, sir?’
‘Young Mr. Springrove?’ said the rector, surprised.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Yes, of course he can see me. Tell him to come in.’
Edward came so impatiently into the room, as to show that the few short
moments his announcement had occupied had been irksome to him. He stood
in the doorway with the same black bag in his hand, and the same old
gray cloak on his shoulders, that he had worn fifteen months earlier
when returning on the night of the fire. This appearance of his conveyed
a true impression; he had become a stagnant man. But he was excited now.
‘I have this moment come from London,’ he said, as the door was closed
behind him.
The prophetic insight, which so strangely accompanies critical
experiences, prompted Mr. Raunham’s reply.
‘About the Grayes and Manston?’
‘Yes. That woman is not Mrs. Manston.’
‘Prove it.’
‘I can prove that she is somebody else--that her name is Anne Seaway.’
‘And are their suspicions true indeed!’
‘And I can do what’s more to the purpose at present.’
‘Suggest Manston’s motive?’
‘Only suggest it, remember. But my assumption fits so perfectly with the
facts that have been secretly unearthed and conveyed to me, that I can
hardly conceive of another.’
There was in Edward’s bearing that entire unconsciousness of himself
which, natural to wild animals, only prevails in a sensitive man at
moments of extreme intentness. The rector saw that he had no trivial
story to communicate, whatever the story was.
‘Sit down,’ said Mr. Raunham. ‘My mind has been on the stretch all the
evening to form the slightest guess at such an object, and all to no
purpose--entirely to no purpose. Have you said anything to Owen Graye?’
‘Nothing--nor to anybody. I could not trust to the effect a letter might
have upon yourself, either; the intricacy of the case brings me to this
interview.’
Whilst Springrove had been speaking the two had sat down together. The
conversation, hitherto distinct to every corner of the room, was carried
on now in tones so low as to be scarcely audible to the interlocutors,
and in phrases which hesitated to complete themselves. Three-quarters
of an hour passed. Then Edward arose, came out of the rector’s study and
again flung his cloak around him. Instead of going thence homeward,
he went first to the Carriford Road Station with a telegram, having
despatched which he proceeded to his father’s house for the first time
since his arrival in the village.
3. FROM NINE TO TEN O’CLOCK P.M.
The next presentation is the interior of the Old House on the evening of
the preceding section. The steward was sitting by his parlour fire, and
had been reading the letter arrived from the rectory. Opposite to him
sat the woman known to the village and neighbourhood as Mrs. Manston.
‘Things are looking desperate with us,’ he said gloomily. His gloom was
not that of the hypochondriac, but the legitimate gloom which has its
origin in a syllogism. As he uttered the words he handed the letter to
her.
‘I almost expected some such news as this,’ she replied, in a tone of
much greater indifference. ‘I knew suspicion lurked in the eyes of that
young man who stared at me so in the church path: I could have sworn
it.’
Manston did not answer for some time. His face was worn and haggard;
latterly his head had not been carried so uprightly as of old. ‘If they
prove you to be--who you are.... Yes, if they do,’ he murmured.
‘They must not find that out,’ she said, in a positive voice, and
looking at him. ‘But supposing they do, the trick does not seem to me to
be so serious as to justify that wretched, miserable, horrible look of
yours. It makes my flesh creep; it is perfectly deathlike.’
He did not reply, and she continued, ‘If they say and prove that Eunice
is indeed living--and dear, you know she is--she is sure to come back.’
This remark seemed to awaken and irritate him to speech. Again, as he
had done a hundred times during their residence together, he categorized
the events connected with the fire at the Three Tranters. He dwelt on
every incident of that night’s history, and endeavoured, with an anxiety
which was extraordinary in the apparent circumstances, to prove that his
wife must, by the very nature of things, have perished in the flames.
She arose from her seat, crossed the hearthrug, and set herself to
soothe him; then she whispered that she was still as unbelieving as
ever. ‘Come, supposing she escaped--just supposing she escaped--where is
she?’ coaxed the lady.
‘Why are you so curious continually?’ said Manston.
‘Because I am a woman and want to know. Now where is she?’
‘In the Flying Isle of San Borandan.’
‘Witty cruelty is the cruellest of any. Ah, well--if she is in England,
she will come back.’
‘She is not in England.’
‘But she will come back?’
‘No, she won’t.... Come, madam,’ he said, arousing himself, ‘I shall not