Desperate Remedies
her husband should countenance his scheme to personify her--whether she
were in America, in London, or in the neighbourhood of Knapwater.
Then came the old and harassing question, what was Manston’s real motive
in risking his name on the deception he was practising as regarded Anne.
It could not be, as he had always pretended, mere passion. Her thoughts
had reverted to Mr. Raunham’s letter, asking for proofs of her identity
with the original Mrs. Manston. She could see no loophole of escape
for the man who supported her. True, in her own estimation, his worst
alternative was not so very bad after all--the getting the name of
libertine, a possible appearance in the divorce or some other court
of law, and a question of damages. Such an exposure might hinder
his worldly progress for some time. Yet to him this alternative was,
apparently, terrible as death itself.
She restored the letters to their hiding-place, scanned anew the other
letters and memoranda, from which she could gain no fresh information,
fastened up the cabinet, and left everything in its former condition.
Her mind was ill at ease. More than ever she wished that she had never
seen Manston. Where the person suspected of mysterious moral obliquity
is the possessor of great physical and intellectual attractions, the
mere sense of incongruity adds an extra shudder to dread. The man’s
strange bearing terrified Anne as it had terrified Cytherea; for with
all the woman Anne’s faults, she had not descended to such depths of
depravity as to willingly participate in crime. She had not even known
that a living wife was being displaced till her arrival at Knapwater put
retreat out of the question, and had looked upon personation simply as
a mode of subsistence a degree better than toiling in poverty and alone,
after a bustling and somewhat pampered life as housekeeper in a gay
mansion.
‘Non illa colo calathisve Minervae
Foemineas assueta manus.’
2. AFTERNOON
Mr. Raunham and Edward Springrove had by this time set in motion a
machinery which they hoped to find working out important results.
The rector was restless and full of meditation all the following
morning. It was plain, even to the servants about him, that Springrove’s
communication wore a deeper complexion than any that had been made to
the old magistrate for many months or years past. The fact was that,
having arrived at the stage of existence in which the difficult
intellectual feat of suspending one’s judgment becomes possible, he was
now putting it in practice, though not without the penalty of watchful
effort.
It was not till the afternoon that he determined to call on his
relative, Miss Aldclyffe, and cautiously probe her knowledge of the
subject occupying him so thoroughly. Cytherea, he knew, was still
beloved by this solitary woman. Miss Aldclyffe had made several private
inquiries concerning her former companion, and there was ever a sadness
in her tone when the young lady’s name was mentioned, which showed that
from whatever cause the elder Cytherea’s renunciation of her favourite
and namesake proceeded, it was not from indifference to her fate.
‘Have you ever had any reason for supposing your steward anything but an
upright man?’ he said to the lady.
‘Never the slightest. Have you?’ said she reservedly.
‘Well--I have.’
‘What is it?’
‘I can say nothing plainly, because nothing is proved. But my suspicions
are very strong.’
‘Do you mean that he was rather cool towards his wife when they were
first married, and that it was unfair in him to leave her? I know he
was; but I think his recent conduct towards her has amply atoned for the
neglect.’
He looked Miss Aldclyffe full in the face. It was plain that she spoke
honestly. She had not the slightest notion that the woman who lived with
the steward might be other than Mrs. Manston--much less that a greater
matter might be behind.
‘That’s not it--I wish it was no more. My suspicion is, first, that the
woman living at the Old House is not Mr. Manston’s wife.’
‘Not--Mr. Manston’s wife?’
‘That is it.’
Miss Aldclyffe looked blankly at the rector. ‘Not Mr. Manston’s
wife--who else can she be?’ she said simply.
‘An improper woman of the name of Anne Seaway.’
Mr. Raunham had, in common with other people, noticed the extraordinary
interest of Miss Aldclyffe in the well-being of her steward, and had
endeavoured to account for it in various ways. The extent to which she
was shaken by his information, whilst it proved that the understanding
between herself and Manston did not make her a sharer of his secrets,
also showed that the tie which bound her to him was still unbroken. Mr.
Raunham had lately begun to doubt the latter fact, and now, on finding
himself mistaken, regretted that he had not kept his own counsel in the
matter. This it was too late to do, and he pushed on with his proofs. He
gave Miss Aldclyffe in detail the grounds of his belief.
Before he had done, she recovered the cloak of reserve that she had
adopted on his opening the subject.
‘I might possibly be convinced that you were in the right, after such an
elaborate argument,’ she replied, ‘were it not for one fact, which bears
in the contrary direction so pointedly, that nothing but absolute proof
can turn it. It is that there is no conceivable motive which
could induce any sane man--leaving alone a man of Mr. Manston’s
clear-headedness and integrity--to venture upon such an extraordinary
course of conduct--no motive on earth.’
‘That was my own opinion till after the visit of a friend last night--a
friend of mine and poor little Cytherea’s.’
‘Ah--and Cytherea,’ said Miss Aldclyffe, catching at the idea raised
by the name. ‘That he loved Cytherea--yes and loves her now, wildly and
devotedly, I am as positive as that I breathe. Cytherea is years younger
than Mrs. Manston--as I shall call her--twice as sweet in disposition,
three times as beautiful. Would he have given her up quietly and
suddenly for a common--Mr. Raunham, your story is monstrous, and I don’t
believe it!’ She glowed in her earnestness.
The rector might now have advanced his second proposition--the possible
motive--but for reasons of his own he did not.
‘Very well, madam. I only hope that facts will sustain you in your
belief. Ask him the question to his face, whether the woman is his wife
or no, and see how he receives it.’
‘I will to-morrow, most certainly,’ she said. ‘I always let these things
die of wholesome ventilation, as every fungus does.’
But no sooner had the rector left her presence, than the grain of
mustard-seed he had sown grew to a tree. Her impatience to set her
mind at rest could not brook a night’s delay. It was with the utmost
difficulty that she could wait till evening arrived to screen her
movements. Immediately the sun had dropped behind the horizon, and
before it was quite dark, she wrapped her cloak around her, softly left
the house, and walked erect through the gloomy park in the direction of
the old manor-house.
The same minute saw two persons sit down in the rectory-house to
share the rector’s usually solitary dinner. One was a man of official
appearance, commonplace in all except his eyes. The other was Edward
Springrove.
The discovery of the carefully-concealed letters rankled in the mind of
Anne Seaway. Her woman’s nature insisted that Manston had no right to
keep all matters connected with his lost wife a secret from herself.
Perplexity had bred vexation; vexation, resentment; curiosity had been
continuous. The whole morning this resentment and curiosity increased.
The steward said very little to his companion during their luncheon
at mid-day. He seemed reckless of appearances--almost indifferent to
whatever fate awaited him. All his actions betrayed that something
portentous was impending, and still he explained nothing. By carefully
observing every trifling action, as only a woman can observe them,
the thought at length dawned upon her that he was going to run away
secretly. She feared for herself; her knowledge of law and justice was
vague, and she fancied she might in some way be made responsible for
him.
In the afternoon he went out of the house again, and she watched him
drive away in the direction of the county-town. She felt a desire to go
there herself, and, after an interval of half-an-hour, followed him on
foot notwithstanding the distance--ostensibly to do some shopping.
One among her several trivial errands was to make a small purchase at
the druggist’s. Near the druggist’s stood the County Bank. Looking out
of the shop window, between the coloured bottles, she saw Manston come
down the steps of the bank, in the act of withdrawing his hand from his
pocket, and pulling his coat close over its mouth.
It is an almost universal habit with people, when leaving a bank, to be
carefully adjusting their pockets if they have been receiving money; if
they have been paying it in, their hands swing laxly. The steward had
in all likelihood been taking money--possibly on Miss Aldclyffe’s
account--that was continual with him. And he might have been removing
his own, as a man would do who was intending to leave the country.
3. FROM FIVE TO EIGHT O’CLOCK P.M.
Anne reached home again in time to preside over preparations for dinner.
Manston came in half-an-hour later. The lamp was lighted, the shutters
were closed, and they sat down together. He was pale and worn--almost
haggard.
The meal passed off in almost unbroken silence. When preoccupation
withstands the influence of a social meal with one pleasant companion,
the mental scene must be surpassingly vivid. Just as she was rising a
tap came to the door.
Before a maid could attend to the knock, Manston crossed the room and
answered it himself. The visitor was Miss Aldclyffe.
Manston instantly came back and spoke to Anne in an undertone. ‘I should
be glad if you could retire to your room for a short time.’
‘It is a dry, starlight evening,’ she replied. ‘I will go for a
little walk if your object is merely a private conversation with Miss
Aldclyffe.’
‘Very well, do; there’s no accounting for tastes,’ he said. A few
commonplaces then passed between her and Miss Aldclyffe, and Anne went
upstairs to bonnet and cloak herself. She came down, opened the front
door, and went out.
She looked around to realize the night. It was dark, mournful, and
quiet. Then she stood still. From the moment that Manston had requested
her absence, a strong and burning desire had prevailed in her to know
the subject of Miss Aldclyffe’s conversation with him. Simple curiosity
was not entirely what inspired her. Her suspicions had been thoroughly
aroused by the discovery of the morning. A conviction that her future
depended on her power to combat a man who, in desperate circumstances,
would be far from a friend to her, prompted a strategic movement to
acquire the important secret that was in handling now. The woman thought
and thought, and regarded the dull dark trees, anxiously debating how
the thing could be done.
Stealthily re-opening the front door she entered the hall, and advancing
and pausing alternately, came close to the door of the room in which
Miss Aldclyffe and Manston conversed. Nothing could be heard through the
keyhole or panels. At a great risk she softly turned the knob and
opened the door to a width of about half-an-inch, performing the act so
delicately that three minutes, at least, were occupied in completing it.
At that instant Miss Aldclyffe said--
‘There’s a draught somewhere. The door is ajar, I think.’
Anne glided back under the staircase. Manston came forward and closed
the door. This chance was now cut off, and she considered again. The
parlour, or sitting-room, in which the conference took place, had the