IX. THE EVENTS OF TEN WEEKS
1. FROM SEPTEMBER THE TWENTY-FIRST TO THE MIDDLE OF NOVEMBER
The foremost figure within Cytherea's horizon, exclusive of the
inmates of Knapwater House, was now the steward, Mr. Manston. It
was impossible that they should live within a quarter of a mile of
each other, be engaged in the same service, and attend the same
church, without meeting at some spot or another, twice or thrice a
week. On Sundays, in her pew, when by chance she turned her head,
Cytherea found his eyes waiting desirously for a glimpse of hers,
and, at first more strangely, the eyes of Miss Aldclyffe furtively
resting on him. On coming out of church he frequently walked beside
Cytherea till she reached the gate at which residents in the House
turned into the shrubbery. By degrees a conjecture grew to a
certainty. She knew that he loved her.
But a strange fact was connected with the development of his love.
He was palpably making the strongest efforts to subdue, or at least
to hide, the weakness, and as it sometimes seemed, rather from his
own conscience than from surrounding eyes. Hence she found that not
one of his encounters with her was anything more than the result of
pure accident. He made no advances whatever: without avoiding her,
he never sought her: the words he had whispered at their first
interview now proved themselves to be quite as much the result of
unguarded impulse as was her answer. Something held him back, bound
his impulse down, but she saw that it was neither pride of his
person, nor fear that she would refuse him--a course she
unhesitatingly resolved to take should he think fit to declare
himself. She was interested in him and his marvellous beauty, as
she might have been in some fascinating panther or leopard--for some
undefinable reason she shrank from him, even whilst she admired.
The keynote of her nature, a warm 'precipitance of soul,' as
Coleridge happily writes it, which Manston had so directly pounced
upon at their very first interview, gave her now a tremulous sense
of being in some way in his power.
The state of mind was, on the whole, a dangerous one for a young and
inexperienced woman; and perhaps the circumstance which, more than
any other, led her to cherish Edward's image now, was that he had
taken no notice of the receipt of her letter, stating that she
discarded him. It was plain then, she said, that he did not care
deeply for her, and she thereupon could not quite leave off caring
deeply for him:--
'Ingenium mulierum,
Nolunt ubi velis, ubi nolis cupiunt ultro.'
The month of October passed, and November began its course. The
inhabitants of the village of Carriford grew weary of supposing that
Miss Aldclyffe was going to marry her steward. New whispers arose
and became very distinct (though they did not reach Miss Aldclyffe's
ears) to the effect that the steward was deeply in love with
Cytherea Graye. Indeed, the fact became so obvious that there was
nothing left to say about it except that their marriage would be an
excellent one for both;--for her in point of comfort--and for him in
point of love.
As circles in a pond grow wider and wider, the next fact, which at
first had been patent only to Cytherea herself, in due time spread
to her neighbours, and they, too, wondered that he made no overt
advances. By the middle of November, a theory made up of a
combination of the other two was received with general favour: its
substance being that a guilty intrigue had been commenced between
Manston and Miss Aldclyffe, some years before, when he was a very
young man, and she still in the enjoyment of some womanly beauty,
but now that her seniority began to grow emphatic she was becoming
distasteful to him. His fear of the effect of the lady's jealousy
would, they said, thus lead him to conceal from her his new
attachment to Cytherea. Almost the only woman who did not believe
this was Cytherea herself, on unmistakable grounds, which were
hidden from all besides. It was not only in public, but even more
markedly in secluded places, on occasions when gallantry would have
been safe from all discovery, that this guarded course of action was
pursued, all the strength of a consuming passion burning in his eyes
the while.
2. NOVEMBER THE EIGHTEENTH
It was on a Friday in this month of November that Owen Graye paid a
visit to his sister.
His zealous integrity still retained for him the situation at
Budmouth, and in order that there should be as little interruption
as possible to his duties there, he had decided not to come to
Knapwater till late in the afternoon, and to return to Budmouth by
the first train the next morning, Miss Aldclyffe having made a point
of frequently offering him lodging for an unlimited period, to the
great pleasure of Cytherea.
He reached the house about four o'clock, and ringing the bell, asked
of the page who answered it for Miss Graye.
When Graye spoke the name of his sister, Manston, who was just
coming out from an interview with Miss Aldclyffe, passed him in the
vestibule and heard the question. The steward's face grew hot, and
he secretly clenched his hands. He half crossed the court, then
turned his head and saw that the lad still stood at the door, though
Owen had been shown into the house. Manston went back to him.
'Who was that man?' he said.
'I don't know, sir.'
'Has he ever been here before?'
'Yes, sir.'
'How many times?'
'Three.'
'You are sure you don't know him?'
'I think he is Miss Graye's brother, sir.'
'Then, why the devil didn't you say so before!' Manston exclaimed,
and again went on his way.
'Of course, that was not the man of my dreams--of course, it
couldn't be!' he said to himself. 'That I should be such a fool--
such an utter fool. Good God! to allow a girl to influence me like
this, day after day, till I am jealous of her very brother. A
lady's dependent, a waif, a helpless thing entirely at the mercy of
the world; yes, curse it; that is just why it is; that fact of her
being so helpless against the blows of circumstances which renders
her so deliciously sweet!'
He paused opposite his house. Should he get his horse saddled? No.
He went down the drive and out of the park, having started to
proceed to an outlying spot on the estate concerning some draining,
and to call at the potter's yard to make an arrangement for the
supply of pipes. But a remark which Miss Aldclyffe had dropped in
relation to Cytherea was what still occupied his mind, and had been
the immediate cause of his excitement at the sight of her brother.
Miss Aldclyffe had meaningly remarked during their intercourse, that
Cytherea was wildly in love with Edward Springrove, in spite of his
engagement to his cousin Adelaide.
'How I am harassed!' he said aloud, after deep thought for half-an-
hour, while still continuing his walk with the greatest vehemence.
'How I am harassed by these emotions of mine!' He calmed himself by
an effort. 'Well, duty after all it shall be, as nearly as I can
effect it. "Honesty is the best policy;"' with which vigorously
uttered resolve he once more attempted to turn his attention to the
prosy object of his journey.
The evening had closed in to a dark and dreary night when the
steward came from the potter's door to proceed homewards again. The
gloom did not tend to raise his spirits, and in the total lack of
objects to attract his eye, he soon fell to introspection as before.
It was along the margin of turnip fields that his path lay, and the
large leaves of the crop struck flatly against his feet at every
step, pouring upon them the rolling drops of moisture gathered upon
their broad surfaces; but the annoyance was unheeded. Next reaching
a fir plantation, he mounted the stile and followed the path into
the midst of the darkness produced by the overhanging trees.
After walking under the dense shade of the inky boughs for a few
minutes, he fancied he had mistaken the path, which as yet was
scarcely familiar to him. This was proved directly afterwards by
his coming at right angles upon some obstruction, which careful
feeling with outstretched hands soon told him to be a rail fence.
However, as the wood was not large, he experienced no alarm about
finding the path again, and with some sense of pleasure halted
awhile against the rails, to listen to the intensely melancholy yet
musical wail of the fir-tops, and as the wind passed on, the prompt
moan of an adjacent plantation in reply. He could just dimly
discern the airy summits of the two or three trees nearest him
waving restlessly backwards and forwards, and stretching out their
boughs like hairy arms into the dull sky. The scene, from its
striking and emphatic loneliness, began to grow congenial to his
mood; all of human kind seemed at the antipodes.
A sudden rattle on his right hand caused him to start from his
reverie, and turn in that direction. There, before him, he saw rise
up from among the trees a fountain of sparks and smoke, then a red
glare of light coming forward towards him; then a flashing panorama
of illuminated oblong pictures; then the old darkness, more
impressive than ever.
The surprise, which had owed its origin to his imperfect
acquaintance with the topographical features of that end of the
estate, had been but momentary; the disturbance, a well-known one to
dwellers by a railway, being caused by the 6.50 down-train passing
along a shallow cutting in the midst of the wood immediately below
where he stood, the driver having the fire-door of the engine open
at the minute of going by. The train had, when passing him, already
considerably slackened speed, and now a whistle was heard,
announcing that Carriford Road Station was not far in its van.
But contrary to the natural order of things, the discovery that it
was only a commonplace train had not caused Manston to stir from his
position of facing the railway.
If the 6.50 down-train had been a flash of forked lightning
transfixing him to the earth, he could scarcely have remained in a
more trance-like state. He still leant against the railings, his
right hand still continued pressing on his walking-stick, his weight
on one foot, his other heel raised, his eyes wide open towards the
blackness of the cutting. The only movement in him was a slight
dropping of the lower jaw, separating his previously closed lips a
little way, as when a strange conviction rushes home suddenly upon a
man. A new surprise, not nearly so trivial as the first, had taken
possession of him.
It was on this account. At one of the illuminated windows of a
second-class carriage in the series gone by, he had seen a pale
face, reclining upon one hand, the light from the lamp falling full
upon it. The face was a woman's.
At last Manston moved; gave a whispering kind of whistle, adjusted
his hat, and walked on again, cross-questioning himself in every
direction as to how a piece of knowledge he had carefully concealed
had found its way to another person's intelligence. 'How can my
address have become known?' he said at length, audibly. 'Well, it
is a blessing I have been circumspect and honourable, in relation to
that--yes, I will say it, for once, even if the words choke me, that
darling of mine, Cytherea, never to be my own, never. I suppose all
will come out now. All!' The great sadness of his utterance proved
that no mean force had been exercised upon himself to sustain the
circumspection he had just claimed.
He wheeled to the left, pursued the ditch beside the railway fence,
and presently emerged from the wood, stepping into a road which
crossed the railway by a bridge.
As he neared home, the anxiety lately written in his face, merged by
degrees into a grimly humorous smile, which hung long upon his lips,
and he quoted aloud a line from the book of Jeremiah--
'A woman shall compass a man.'
3. NOVEMBER THE NINETEENTH. DAYBREAK
Before it was light the next morning, two little naked feet pattered
along the passage in Knapwater House, from which Owen Graye's
bedroom opened, and a tap was given upon his door.
'Owen, Owen, are you awake?' said Cytherea in a whisper through the
keyhole. 'You must get up directly, or you'll miss the train.'
When he descended to his sister's little room, he found her there
already waiting with a cup of cocoa and a grilled rasher on the
table for him. A hasty meal was despatched in the intervals of
putting on his overcoat and finding his hat, and they then went
softly through the long deserted passages, the kitchen-maid who had
prepared their breakfast walking before them with a lamp held high
above her head, which cast long wheeling shadows down corridors
intersecting the one they followed, their remoter ends being lost in
darkness. The door was unbolted and they stepped out.
Owen had preferred walking to the station to accepting the pony-
carriage which Miss Aldclyffe had placed at his disposal, having a
morbid horror of giving trouble to people richer than himself, and
especially to their men-servants, who looked down upon him as a
hybrid monster in social position. Cytherea proposed to walk a
little way with him.
'I want to talk to you as long as I can,' she said tenderly.
Brother and sister then emerged by the heavy door into the drive.
The feeling and aspect of the hour were precisely similar to those
under which the steward had left the house the evening previous,
excepting that apparently unearthly reversal of natural sequence,
which is caused by the world getting lighter instead of darker.
'The tearful glimmer of the languid dawn' was just sufficient to
reveal to them the melancholy red leaves, lying thickly in the
channels by the roadside, ever and anon loudly tapped on by heavy
drops of water, which the boughs above had collected from the foggy
air.
They passed the Old House, engaged in a deep conversation, and had
proceeded about twenty yards by a cross route, in the direction of
the turnpike road, when the form of a woman emerged from the porch
of the building.
She was wrapped in a grey waterproof cloak, the hood of which was
drawn over her head and closely round her face--so closely that her
eyes were the sole features uncovered.
With this one exception of her appearance there, the most perfect
stillness and silence pervaded the steward's residence from basement
to chimney. Not a shutter was open; not a twine of smoke came
forth.
Underneath the ivy-covered gateway she stood still and listened for
two, or possibly three minutes, till she became conscious of others
in the park. Seeing the pair she stepped back, with the apparent
intention of letting them pass out of sight, and evidently wishing
to avoid observation. But looking at her watch, and returning it
rapidly to her pocket, as if surprised at the lateness of the hour,
she hurried out again, and across the park by a still more oblique
line than that traced by Owen and his sister.
These in the meantime had got into the road, and were walking along
it as the woman came up on the other side of the boundary hedge,
looking for a gate or stile, by which she, too, might get off the
grass upon the hard ground.
Their conversation, of which every word was clear and distinct, in
the still air of the dawn, to the distance of a quarter of a mile,
reached her ears, and withdrew her attention from all other matters
and sights whatsoever. Thus arrested she stood for an instant as
precisely in the attitude of Imogen by the cave of Belarius, as if
she had studied the position from the play. When they had advanced
a few steps, she followed them in some doubt, still screened by the
hedge.
'Do you believe in such odd coincidences?' said Cytherea.
'How do you mean, believe in them? They occur sometimes.'
'Yes, one will occur often enough--that is, two disconnected events
will fall strangely together by chance, and people scarcely notice
the fact beyond saying, "Oddly enough it happened that so and so
were the same," and so on. But when three such events coincide
without any apparent reason for the coincidence, it seems as if
there must be invisible means at work. You see, three things
falling together in that manner are ten times as singular as two
cases of coincidence which are distinct.'
'Well, of course: what a mathematical head you have, Cytherea! But
I don't see so much to marvel at in our case. That the man who kept
the public-house in which Miss Aldclyffe fainted, and who found out
her name and position, lives in this neighbourhood, is accounted for
by the fact that she got him the berth to stop his tongue. That you
came here was simply owing to Springrove.'
'Ah, but look at this. Miss Aldclyffe is the woman our father first
loved, and I have come to Miss Aldclyffe's; you can't get over
that.'
From these premises, she proceeded to argue like an elderly divine
on the designs of Providence which were apparent in such
conjunctures, and went into a variety of details connected with Miss
Aldclyffe's history.
'Had I better tell Miss Aldclyffe that I know all this?' she
inquired at last.
'What's the use?' he said. 'Your possessing the knowledge does no
harm; you are at any rate comfortable here, and a confession to Miss
Aldclyffe might only irritate her. No, hold your tongue, Cytherea.'
'I fancy I should have been tempted to tell her too,' Cytherea went
on, 'had I not found out that there exists a very odd, almost
imperceptible, and yet real connection of some kind between her and
Mr. Manston, which is more than that of a mutual interest in the
estate.'
'She is in love with him!' exclaimed Owen; 'fancy that!'
'Ah--that's what everybody says who has been keen enough to notice
anything. I said so at first. And yet now I cannot persuade myself
that she is in love with him at all.'
'Why can't you?'
'She doesn't act as if she were. She isn't--you will know I don't
say it from any vanity, Owen--she isn't the least jealous of me.'
'Perhaps she is in some way in his power.'
'No--she is not. He was openly advertised for, and chosen from
forty or fifty who answered the advertisement, without knowing whose
it was. And since he has been here, she has certainly done nothing
to compromise herself in any way. Besides, why should she have
brought an enemy here at all?'
'Then she must have fallen in love with him. You know as well as I
do, Cyth, that with women there's nothing between the two poles of
emotion towards an interesting male acquaintance. 'Tis either love
or aversion.'
They walked for a few minutes in silence, when Cytherea's eyes
accidentally fell upon her brother's feet.
'Owen,' she said, 'do you know that there is something unusual in
your manner of walking?'
'What is it like?' he asked.
'I can't quite say, except that you don't walk so regularly as you
used to.'
The woman behind the hedge, who had still continued to dog their
footsteps, made an impatient movement at this change in their
conversation, and looked at her watch again. Yet she seemed
reluctant to give over listening to them.
'Yes,' Owen returned with assumed carelessness, 'I do know it. I
think the cause of it is that mysterious pain which comes just above
my ankle sometimes. You remember the first time I had it? That day
we went by steam-packet to Lulstead Cove, when it hindered me from
coming back to you, and compelled me to sleep with the gateman we
have been talking about.'
'But is it anything serious, dear Owen?' Cytherea exclaimed, with
some alarm.
'O, nothing at all. It is sure to go off again. I never find a
sign of it when I sit in the office.'
Again their unperceived companion made a gesture of vexation, and
looked at her watch as if time were precious. But the dialogue
still flowed on upon this new subject, and showed no sign of
returning to its old channel.
Gathering up her skirt decisively she renounced all further hope,
and hurried along the ditch till she had dropped into a valley, and
came to a gate which was beyond the view of those coming behind.
This she softly opened, and came out upon the road, following it in
the direction of the railway station.
Presently she heard Owen Graye's footsteps in her rear, his
quickened pace implying that he had parted from his sister. The
woman thereupon increased her rapid walk to a run, and in a few
minutes safely distanced her fellow-traveller.
The railway at Carriford Road consisted only of a single line of
rails; and the short local down-train by which Owen was going to
Budmouth was shunted on to a siding whilst the first up-train
passed. Graye entered the waiting-room, and the door being open he
listlessly observed the movements of a woman wearing a long grey
cloak, and closely hooded, who had asked for a ticket for London.
He followed her with his eyes on to the platform, saw her waiting
there and afterwards stepping into the train: his recollection of
her ceasing with the perception.
4. EIGHT TO TEN O'CLOCK A.M.
Mrs. Crickett, twice a widow, and now the parish clerk's wife, a
fine-framed, scandal-loving woman, with a peculiar corner to her eye
by which, without turning her head, she could see what people were
doing almost behind her, lived in a cottage standing nearer to the
old manor-house than any other in the village of Carriford, and she
had on that account been temporarily engaged by the steward, as a
respectable kind of charwoman and general servant, until a settled
arrangement could be made with some person as permanent domestic.
Every morning, therefore, Mrs. Crickett, immediately she had lighted
the fire in her own cottage, and prepared the breakfast for herself
and husband, paced her way to the Old House to do the same for Mr.
Manston. Then she went home to breakfast; and when the steward had
eaten his, and had gone out on his rounds, she returned again to
clear away, make his bed, and put the house in order for the day.
On the morning of Owen Graye's departure, she went through the
operations of her first visit as usual--proceeded home to breakfast,
and went back again, to perform those of the second.
Entering Manston's empty bedroom, with her hands on her hips, she
indifferently cast her eyes upon the bed, previously to dismantling
it.
Whilst she looked, she thought in an inattentive manner, 'What a
remarkably quiet sleeper Mr. Manston must be!' The upper bed-
clothes were flung back, certainly, but the bed was scarcely
disarranged. 'Anybody would almost fancy,' she thought, 'that he
had made it himself after rising.'
But these evanescent thoughts vanished as they had come, and Mrs.
Crickett set to work; she dragged off the counterpane, blankets and
sheets, and stooped to lift the pillows. Thus stooping, something
arrested her attention; she looked closely--more closely--very
closely. 'Well, to be sure!' was all she could say. The clerk's
wife stood as if the air had suddenly set to amber, and held her
fixed like a fly in it.
The object of her wonder was a trailing brown hair, very little less
than a yard long, which proved it clearly to be a hair from some
woman's head. She drew it off the pillow, and took it to the
window; there holding it out she looked fixedly at it, and became
utterly lost in meditation: her gaze, which had at first actively
settled on the hair, involuntarily dropped past its object by
degrees and was lost on the floor, as the inner vision obscured the
outer one.
She at length moistened her lips, returned her eyes to the hair,
wound it round her fingers, put it in some paper, and secreted the
whole in her pocket. Mrs. Crickett's thoughts were with her work no
more that morning.
She searched the house from roof-tree to cellar, for some other
trace of feminine existence or appurtenance; but none was to be
found.
She went out into the yard, coal-hole, stable, hay-loft, green-
house, fowl-house, and piggery, and still there was no sign. Coming
in again, she saw a bonnet, eagerly pounced upon it; and found it to
be her own.
Hastily completing her arrangements in the other rooms, she entered
the village again, and called at once on the postmistress, Elizabeth
Leat, an intimate friend of hers, and a female who sported several
unique diseases and afflictions.
Mrs. Crickett unfolded the paper, took out the hair, and waved it on
high before the perplexed eyes of Elizabeth, which immediately
mooned and wandered after it like a cat's.
'What is it?' said Mrs. Leat, contracting her eyelids, and
stretching out towards the invisible object a narrow bony hand that
would have been an unmitigated delight to the pencil of Carlo
Crivelli.
'You shall hear,' said Mrs. Crickett, complacently gathering up the
treasure into her own fat hand; and the secret was then solemnly
imparted, together with the accident of its discovery.
A shaving-glass was taken down from a nail, laid on its back in the
middle of a table by the window, and the hair spread carefully out
upon it. The pair then bent over the table from opposite sides,
their elbows on the edge, their hands supporting their heads, their
foreheads nearly touching, and their eyes upon the hair.
'He ha' been mad a'ter my lady Cytherea,' said Mrs. Crickett, 'and
'tis my very belief the hair is--'
'No 'tidn'. Hers idn' so dark as that,' said Elizabeth.
'Elizabeth, you know that as the faithful wife of a servant of the
Church, I should be glad to think as you do about the girl. Mind I
don't wish to say anything against Miss Graye, but this I do say,
that I believe her to be a nameless thing, and she's no right to
stick a moral clock in her face, and deceive the country in such a
way. If she wasn't of a bad stock at the outset she was bad in the
planten, and if she wasn't bad in the planten, she was bad in the
growen, and if not in the growen, she's made bad by what she's gone
through since.'
'But I have another reason for knowing it idn' hers,' said Mrs.
Leat.
'Ah! I know whose it is then--Miss Aldclyffe's, upon my song!'
''Tis the colour of hers, but I don't believe it to be hers either.'
'Don't you believe what they d' say about her and him?'
'I say nothen about that; but you don't know what I know about his
letters.'
'What about 'em?'
'He d' post all his letters here except those for one person, and
they he d' take to Budmouth. My son is in Budmouth Post Office, as
you know, and as he d' sit at desk he can see over the blind of the
window all the people who d' post letters. Mr. Manston d'
unvariably go there wi' letters for that person; my boy d' know 'em
by sight well enough now.'
'Is it a she?'
''Tis a she.'
'What's her name?'
'The little stunpoll of a fellow couldn't call to mind more than
that 'tis Miss Somebody, of London. However, that's the woman who
ha' been here, depend upon't--a wicked one--some poor street-wench
escaped from Sodom, I warrant ye.'
'Only to find herself in Gomorrah, seemingly.'
'That may be.'
'No, no, Mrs. Leat, this is clear to me. 'Tis no miss who came here
to see our steward last night--whenever she came or wherever she
vanished. Do you think he would ha' let a miss get here how she
could, go away how she would, without breakfast or help of any
kind?'
Elizabeth shook her head--Mrs. Crickett looked at her solemnly.
'I say I know she had no help of any kind; I know it was so, for the
grate was quite cold when I touched it this morning with these
fingers, and he was still in bed. No, he wouldn't take the trouble
to write letters to a girl and then treat her so off-hand as that.
There's a tie between 'em stronger than feelen. She's his wife.'
'He married! The Lord so 's, what shall we hear next? Do he look
married now? His are not the abashed eyes and lips of a married
man.'
'Perhaps she's a tame one--but she's his wife still.'
'No, no: he's not a married man.'
'Yes, yes, he is. I've had three, and I ought to know.'
'Well, well,' said Mrs. Leat, giving way. 'Whatever may be the
truth on't I trust Providence will settle it all for the best, as He
always do.'
'Ay, ay, Elizabeth,' rejoined Mrs. Crickett with a satirical sigh,
as she turned on her foot to go home, 'good people like you may say
so, but I have always found Providence a different sort of feller.'
5. NOVEMBER THE TWENTIETH
It was Miss Aldclyffe's custom, a custom originated by her father,
and nourished by her own exclusiveness, to unlock the post-bag
herself every morning, instead of allowing the duty to devolve on
the butler, as was the case in most of the neighbouring county
families. The bag was brought upstairs each morning to her
dressing-room, where she took out the contents, mostly in the
presence of her maid and Cytherea, who had the entree of the chamber
at all hours, and attended there in the morning at a kind of
reception on a small scale, which was held by Miss Aldclyffe of her
namesake only.
Here she read her letters before the glass, whilst undergoing the
operation of being brushed and dressed.
'What woman can this be, I wonder?' she said on the morning
succeeding that of the last section. '"London, N.!" It is the
first time in my life I ever had a letter from that outlandish
place, the North side of London.'
Cytherea had just come into her presence to learn if there was
anything for herself; and on being thus addressed, walked up to Miss
Aldclyffe's corner of the room to look at the curiosity which had
raised such an exclamation. But the lady, having opened the
envelope and read a few lines, put it quickly in her pocket, before
Cytherea could reach her side.
'O, 'tis nothing,' she said. She proceeded to make general remarks
in a noticeably forced tone of sang-froid, from which she soon
lapsed into silence. Not another word was said about the letter:
she seemed very anxious to get her dressing done, and the room
cleared. Thereupon Cytherea went away to the other window, and a
few minutes later left the room to follow her own pursuits.
It was late when Miss Aldclyffe descended to the breakfast-table and
then she seemed there to no purpose; tea, coffee, eggs, cutlets, and
all their accessories, were left absolutely untasted. The next that
was seen of her was when walking up and down the south terrace, and
round the flower-beds; her face was pale, and her tread was fitful,
and she crumpled a letter in her hand.
Dinner-time came round as usual; she did not speak ten words, or
indeed seem conscious of the meal; for all that Miss Aldclyffe did
in the way of eating, dinner might have been taken out as intact as
it was taken in.
In her own private apartment Miss Aldclyffe again pulled out the
letter of the morning. One passage in it ran thus:--
'Of course, being his wife, I could publish the fact, and compel him
to acknowledge me at any moment, notwithstanding his threats, and
reasonings that it will be better to wait. I have waited, and
waited again, and the time for such acknowledgment seems no nearer
than at first. To show you how patiently I have waited I can tell
you that not till a fortnight ago, when by stress of circumstances I
had been driven to new lodgings, have I ever assumed my married
name, solely on account of its having been his request all along
that I should not do it. This writing to you, madam, is my first
disobedience, and I am justified in it. A woman who is driven to
visit her husband like a thief in the night and then sent away like
a street dog--left to get up, unbolt, unbar, and find her way out of
the house as she best may--is justified in doing anything.
'But should I demand of him a restitution of rights, there would be
involved a publicity which I could not endure, and a noisy scandal
flinging my name the length and breadth of the country.
'What I still prefer to any such violent means is that you reason
with him privately, and compel him to bring me home to your parish
in a decent and careful manner, in the way that would be adopted by
any respectable man, whose wife had been living away from him for
some time, by reason, say, of peculiar family circumstances which
had caused disunion, but not enmity, and who at length was enabled
to reinstate her in his house.
'You will, I know, oblige me in this, especially as knowledge of a
peculiar transaction of your own, which took place some years ago,
has lately come to me in a singular way. I will not at present
trouble you by describing how. It is enough, that I alone, of all
people living, know ALL THE SIDES OF THE STORY, those from whom I
collected it having each only a partial knowledge which confuses
them and points to nothing. One person knows of your early
engagement and its sudden termination; another, of the reason of
those strange meetings at inns and coffee-houses; another, of what
was sufficient to cause all this, and so on. I know what fits one
and all the circumstances like a key, and shows them to be the
natural outcrop of a rational (though rather rash) line of conduct
for a young lady. You will at once perceive how it was that some at
least of these things were revealed to me.
'This knowledge then, common to, and secretly treasured by us both,
is the ground upon which I beg for your friendship and help, with a
feeling that you will be too generous to refuse it to me.
'I may add that, as yet, my husband knows nothing of this, neither
need he if you remember my request.'
'A threat--a flat stinging threat! as delicately wrapped up in words
as the woman could do it; a threat from a miserable unknown creature
to an Aldclyffe, and not the least proud member of the family
either! A threat on his account--O, O! shall it be?'
Presently this humour of defiance vanished, and the members of her
body became supple again, her proceedings proving that it was
absolutely necessary to give way, Aldclyffe as she was. She wrote a
short answer to Mrs. Manston, saying civilly that Mr. Manston's
possession of such a near relation was a fact quite new to herself,
and that she would see what could be done in such an unfortunate
affair.
6. NOVEMBER THE TWENTY-FIRST
Manston received a message the next day requesting his attendance at
the House punctually at eight o'clock the ensuing evening. Miss
Aldclyffe was brave and imperious, but with the purpose she had in
view she could not look him in the face whilst daylight shone upon
her.
The steward was shown into the library. On entering it, he was
immediately struck with the unusual gloom which pervaded the
apartment. The fire was dead and dull, one lamp, and that a
comparatively small one, was burning at the extreme end, leaving the
main proportion of the lofty and sombre room in an artificial
twilight, scarcely powerful enough to render visible the titles of
the folio and quarto volumes which were jammed into the lower tiers
of the bookshelves.
After keeping him waiting for more than twenty minutes (Miss
Aldclyffe knew that excellent recipe for taking the stiffness out of
human flesh, and for extracting all pre-arrangement from human
speech) she entered the room.
Manston sought her eye directly. The hue of her features was not
discernible, but the calm glance she flung at him, from which all
attempt at returning his scrutiny was absent, awoke him to the
perception that probably his secret was by some means or other known
to her; how it had become known he could not tell.
She drew forth the letter, unfolded it, and held it up to him,
letting it hang by one corner from between her finger and thumb, so
that the light from the lamp, though remote, fell directly upon its
surface.
'You know whose writing this is?' she said.
He saw the strokes plainly, instantly resolving to burn his ships
and hazard all on an advance.
'My wife's,' he said calmly.
His quiet answer threw her off her balance. She had no more
expected an answer than does a preacher when he exclaims from the
pulpit, 'Do you feel your sin?' She had clearly expected a sudden
alarm.
'And why all this concealment?' she said again, her voice rising, as
she vainly endeavoured to control her feelings, whatever they were.
'It doesn't follow that, because a man is married, he must tell
every stranger of it, madam,' he answered, just as calmly as before.
'Stranger! well, perhaps not; but, Mr. Manston, why did you choose
to conceal it, I ask again? I have a perfect right to ask this
question, as you will perceive, if you consider the terms of my
advertisement.'
'I will tell you. There were two simple reasons. The first was
this practical one; you advertised for an unmarried man, if you
remember?'
'Of course I remember.'
'Well, an incident suggested to me that I should try for the
situation. I was married; but, knowing that in getting an office
where there is a restriction of this kind, leaving one's wife behind
is always accepted as a fulfilment of the condition, I left her
behind for awhile. The other reason is, that these terms of yours
afforded me a plausible excuse for escaping (for a short time) the
company of a woman I had been mistaken in marrying.'
'Mistaken! what was she?' the lady inquired.
'A third-rate actress, whom I met with during my stay in Liverpool
last summer, where I had gone to fulfil a short engagement with an
architect.'
'Where did she come from?'
'She is an American by birth, and I grew to dislike her when we had
been married a week.'
'She was ugly, I imagine?'
'She is not an ugly woman by any means.'
'Up to the ordinary standard?'
'Quite up to the ordinary standard--indeed, handsome. After a while
we quarrelled and separated.'
'You did not ill-use her, of course?' said Miss Aldclyffe, with a
little sarcasm.
'I did not.'
'But at any rate, you got thoroughly tired of her.'
Manston looked as if he began to think her questions put of place;
however, he said quietly, 'I did get tired of her. I never told her
so, but we separated; I to come here, bringing her with me as far as
London and leaving her there in perfectly comfortable quarters; and
though your advertisement expressed a single man, I have always
intended to tell you the whole truth; and this was when I was going
to tell it, when your satisfaction with my careful management of
your affairs should have proved the risk to be a safe one to run.'
She bowed.
'Then I saw that you were good enough to be interested in my welfare
to a greater extent than I could have anticipated or hoped, judging
you by the frigidity of other employers, and this caused me to
hesitate. I was vexed at the complication of affairs. So matters
stood till three nights ago; I was then walking home from the
pottery, and came up to the railway. The down-train came along
close to me, and there, sitting at a carriage window, I saw my wife:
she had found out my address, and had thereupon determined to follow
me here. I had not been home many minutes before she came in, next
morning early she left again--'
'Because you treated her so cavalierly?'
'And as I suppose, wrote to you directly. That's the whole story of
her, madam.' Whatever were Manston's real feelings towards the lady
who had received his explanation in these supercilious tones, they
remained locked within him as within a casket of steel.
'Did your friends know of your marriage, Mr Manston?' she continued.
'Nobody at all; we kept it a secret for various reasons.'
'It is true then that, as your wife tells me in this letter, she has
not passed as Mrs. Manston till within these last few days?'
'It is quite true; I was in receipt of a very small and uncertain
income when we married; and so she continued playing at the theatre
as before our marriage, and in her maiden name.'
'Has she any friends?'
'I have never heard that she has any in England. She came over here
on some theatrical speculation, as one of a company who were going
to do much, but who never did anything; and here she has remained.'
A pause ensued, which was terminated by Miss Aldclyffe.
'I understand,' she said. 'Now, though I have no direct right to
concern myself with your private affairs (beyond those which arise
from your misleading me and getting the office you hold)--'
'As to that, madam,' he interrupted, rather hotly, 'as to coming
here, I am vexed as much as you. Somebody, a member of the
Institute of Architects--who, I could never tell--sent to my old
address in London your advertisement cut from the paper; it was
forwarded to me; I wanted to get away from Liverpool, and it seemed
as if this was put in my way on purpose, by some old friend or
other. I answered the advertisement certainly, but I was not
particularly anxious to come here, nor am I anxious to stay.'
Miss Aldclyffe descended from haughty superiority to womanly
persuasion with a haste which was almost ludicrous. Indeed, the
Quos ego of the whole lecture had been less the genuine menace of
the imperious ruler of Knapwater than an artificial utterance to
hide a failing heart.
'Now, now, Mr. Manston, you wrong me; don't suppose I wish to be
overbearing, or anything of the kind; and you will allow me to say
this much, at any rate, that I have become interested in your wife,
as well as in yourself.'
'Certainly, madam,' he said, slowly, like a man feeling his way in
the dark. Manston was utterly at fault now. His previous
experience of the effect of his form and features upon womankind en
masse, had taught him to flatter himself that he could account by
the same law of natural selection for the extraordinary interest
Miss Aldclyffe had hitherto taken in him, as an unmarried man; an
interest he did not at all object to, seeing that it kept him near
Cytherea, and enabled him, a man of no wealth, to rule on the estate
as if he were its lawful owner. Like Curius at his Sabine farm, he
had counted it his glory not to possess gold himself, but to have
power over her who did. But at this hint of the lady's wish to take
his wife under her wing also, he was perplexed: could she have any
sinister motive in doing so? But he did not allow himself to be
troubled with these doubts, which only concerned his wife's
happiness.
'She tells me,' continued Miss Aldclyffe, 'how utterly alone in the
world she stands, and that is an additional reason why I should
sympathize with her. Instead, then, of requesting the favour of
your retirement from the post, and dismissing your interests
altogether, I will retain you as my steward still, on condition that
you bring home your wife, and live with her respectably, in short,
as if you loved her; you understand. I WISH you to stay here if you
grant that everything shall flow smoothly between yourself and her.'
The breast and shoulders of the steward rose, as if an expression of
defiance was about to be poured forth; before it took form, he
controlled himself and said, in his natural voice--
'My part of the performance shall be carried out, madam.'
'And her anxiety to obtain a standing in the world ensures that hers
will,' replied Miss Aldclyffe. 'That will be satisfactory, then.'
After a few additional remarks, she gently signified that she wished
to put an end to the interview. The steward took the hint and
retired.
He felt vexed and mortified; yet in walking homeward he was
convinced that telling the whole truth as he had done, with the
single exception of his love for Cytherea (which he tried to hide
even from himself), had never served him in better stead than it had
done that night.
Manston went to his desk and thought of Cytherea's beauty with the
bitterest, wildest regret. After the lapse of a few minutes he
calmed himself by a stoical effort, and wrote the subjoined letter
to his wife:--
'KNAPWATER,
November 21, 1864.
'DEAR EUNICE,--I hope you reached London safely after your flighty
visit to me.
'As I promised, I have thought over our conversation that night, and
your wish that your coming here should be no longer delayed. After
all, it was perfectly natural that you should have spoken unkindly
as you did, ignorant as you were of the circumstances which bound
me.
'So I have made arrangements to fetch you home at once. It is
hardly worth while for you to attempt to bring with you any luggage
you may have gathered about you (beyond mere clothing). Dispose of
superfluous things at a broker's; your bringing them would only make
a talk in this parish, and lead people to believe we had long been
keeping house separately.
'Will next Monday suit you for coming? You have nothing to do that
can occupy you for more than a day or two, as far as I can see, and
the remainder of this week will afford ample time. I can be in
London the night before, and we will come down together by the mid-
day train--Your very affectionate husband,
'AENEAS MANSTON.
'Now, of course, I shall no longer write to you as Mrs. Rondley.'
The address on the envelope was--
MRS. MANSTON,
41 CHARLES SQUARE,
HOXTON,
LONDON, N.
He took the letter to the house, and it being too late for the
country post, sent one of the stablemen with it to Casterbridge,
instead of troubling to go to Budmouth with it himself as
heretofore. He had no longer any necessity to keep his condition a
secret.
7. FROM THE TWENTY-SECOND TO THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF NOVEMBER
But the next morning Manston found that he had been forgetful of
another matter, in naming the following Monday to his wife for the
journey.
The fact was this. A letter had just come, reminding him that he
had left the whole of the succeeding week open for an important
business engagement with a neighbouring land-agent, at that
gentleman's residence thirteen miles off. The particular day he had
suggested to his wife, had, in the interim, been appropriated by his
correspondent. The meeting could not now be put off.
So he wrote again to his wife, stating that business, which could
not be postponed, called him away from home on Monday, and would
entirely prevent him coming all the way to fetch her on Sunday night
as he had intended, but that he would meet her at the Carriford Road
Station with a conveyance when she arrived there in the evening.
The next day came his wife's answer to his first letter, in which
she said that she would be ready to be fetched at the time named.
Having already written his second letter, which was by that time in
her hands, he made no further reply.
The week passed away. The steward had, in the meantime, let it
become generally known in the village that he was a married man, and
by a little judicious management, sound family reasons for his past
secrecy upon the subject, which were floated as adjuncts to the
story, were placidly received; they seemed so natural and
justifiable to the unsophisticated minds of nine-tenths of his
neighbours, that curiosity in the matter, beyond a strong curiosity
to see the lady's face, was well-nigh extinguished.
