XIX. THE EVENTS OF A DAY AND NIGHT
1. MARCH THE TWENTY-FIRST. MORNING
Next morning the steward went out as usual. He shortly told his
companion, Anne, that he had almost matured their scheme, and that
they would enter upon the details of it when he came home at night.
The fortunate fact that the rector's letter did not require an
immediate answer would give him time to consider.
Anne Seaway then began her duties in the house. Besides daily
superintending the cook and housemaid one of these duties was, at
rare intervals, to dust Manston's office with her own hands, a
servant being supposed to disturb the books and papers
unnecessarily. She softly wandered from table to shelf with the
duster in her hand, afterwards standing in the middle of the room,
and glancing around to discover if any noteworthy collection of dust
had still escaped her.
Her eye fell upon a faint layer which rested upon the ledge of an
old-fashioned chestnut cabinet of French Renaissance workmanship,
placed in a recess by the fireplace. At a height of about four feet
from the floor the upper portion of the front receded, forming the
ledge alluded to, on which opened at each end two small doors, the
centre space between them being filled out by a panel of similar
size, making the third of three squares. The dust on the ledge was
nearly on a level with the woman's eye, and, though insignificant in
quantity, showed itself distinctly on account of this obliquity of
vision. Now opposite the central panel, concentric quarter-circles
were traced in the deposited film, expressing to her that this
panel, too, was a door like the others; that it had lately been
opened, and had skimmed the dust with its lower edge.
At last, then, her curiosity was slightly rewarded. For the right
of the matter was that Anne had been incited to this exploration of
Manston's office rather by a wish to know the reason of his long
seclusion here, after the arrival of the rector's letter, and their
subsequent discourse, than by any immediate desire for cleanliness.
Still, there would have been nothing remarkable to Anne in this
sight but for one recollection. Manston had once casually told her
that each of the two side-lockers included half the middle space,
the panel of which did not open, and was only put in for symmetry.
It was possible that he had opened this compartment by candlelight
the preceding night, or he would have seen the marks in the dust,
and effaced them, that he might not be proved guilty of telling her
an untruth. She balanced herself on one foot and stood pondering.
She considered that it was very vexing and unfair in him to refuse
her all knowledge of his remaining secrets, under the peculiar
circumstances of her connection with him. She went close to the
cabinet. As there was no keyhole, the door must be capable of being
opened by the unassisted hand. The circles in the dust told her at
which edge to apply her force. Here she pulled with the tips of her
fingers, but the panel would not come forward. She fetched a chair
and looked over the top of the cabinet, but no bolt, knob, or spring
was to be seen.
'O, never mind,' she said, with indifference; 'I'll ask him about
it, and he will tell me.' Down she came and turned away. Then
looking back again she thought it was absurd such a trifle should
puzzle her. She retraced her steps, and opened a drawer beneath the
ledge of the cabinet, pushing in her hand and feeling about on the
underside of the board.
Here she found a small round sinking, and pressed her finger into
it. Nothing came of the pressure. She withdrew her hand and looked
at the tip of her finger: it was marked with the impress of the
circle, and, in addition, a line ran across it diametrically.
'How stupid of me; it is the head of a screw.' Whatever mysterious
contrivance had originally existed for opening the puny cupboard of
the cabinet, it had at some time been broken, and this rough
substitute provided. Stimulated curiosity would not allow her to
recede now. She fetched a screwdriver, withdrew the screw, pulled
the door open with a penknife, and found inside a cavity about ten
inches square. The cavity contained--
Letters from different women, with unknown signatures, Christian
names only (surnames being despised in Paphos). Letters from his
wife Eunice. Letters from Anne herself, including that she wrote in
answer to his advertisement. A small pocket-book. Sundry scraps of
paper.
The letters from the strange women with pet names she glanced
carelessly through, and then put them aside. They were too similar
to her own regretted delusion, and curiosity requires contrast to
excite it.
The letters from his wife were next examined. They were dated back
as far as Eunice's first meeting with Manston, and the early ones
before their marriage contained the usual pretty effusions of women
at such a period of their existence. Some little time after he had
made her his wife, and when he had come to Knapwater, the series
began again, and now their contents arrested her attention more
forcibly. She closed the cabinet, carried the letters into the
parlour, reclined herself on the sofa, and carefully perused them in
the order of their dates.
'JOHN STREET,
October 17,
1864.
'MY DEAREST HUSBAND,--I received your hurried line of yesterday, and
was of course content with it. But why don't you tell me your exact
address instead of that "Post-Office, Budmouth?" This matter is all
a mystery to me, and I ought to be told every detail. I cannot
fancy it is the same kind of occupation you have been used to
hitherto. Your command that I am to stay here awhile until you can
"see how things look" and can arrange to send for me, I must
necessarily abide by. But if, as you say, a married man would have
been rejected by the person who engaged you, and that hence my
existence must be kept a secret until you have secured your
position, why did you think of going at all?
'The truth is, this keeping our marriage a secret is troublesome,
vexing, and wearisome to me. I see the poorest woman in the street
bearing her husband's name openly--living with him in the most
matter-of-fact ease, and why shouldn't I? I wish I was back again
in Liverpool.
'To-day I bought a grey waterproof cloak. I think it is a little
too long for me, but it was cheap for one of such a quality. The
weather is gusty and dreary, and till this morning I had hardly set
foot outside the door since you left. Please do tell me when I am
to come.--Very affectionately yours, EUNICE.'
'JOHN STREET,
October 25,
1864.
'MY DEAR HUSBAND,--Why don't you write? Do you hate me? I have not
had the heart to do anything this last week. That I, your wife,
should be in this strait, and my husband well to do! I have been
obliged to leave my first lodging for debt--among other things, they
charged me for a lot of brandy which I am quite sure I did not
taste. Then I went to Camberwell and was found out by them. I went
away privately from thence, and changed my name the second time. I
am now Mrs. Rondley. But the new lodging was the wretchedest and
dearest I ever set foot in, and I left it after being there only a
day. I am now at No. 2O in the same street that you left me in
originally. All last night the sash of my window rattled so
dreadfully that I could not sleep, but I had not energy enough to
get out of bed to stop it. This morning I have been walking--I
don't know how far--but far enough to make my feet ache. I have
been looking at the outside of two or three of the theatres, but
they seem forbidding if I regard them with the eye of an actress in
search of an engagement. Though you said I was to think no more of
the stage, I believe you would not care if you found me there. But
I am not an actress by nature, and art will never make me one. I am
too timid and retiring; I was intended for a cottager's wife. I
certainly shall not try to go on the boards again whilst I am in
this strange place. The idea of being brought on as far as London
and then left here alone! Why didn't you leave me in Liverpool?
Perhaps you thought I might have told somebody that my real name was
Mrs. Manston. As if I had a living friend to whom I could impart
it--no such good fortune! In fact, my nearest friend is no nearer
than what most people would call a stranger. But perhaps I ought to
tell you that a week before I wrote my last letter to you, after
wishing that my uncle and aunt in Philadelphia (the only near
relatives I had) were still alive, I suddenly resolved to send a
line to my cousin James, who, I believe, is still living in that
neighbourhood. He has never seen me since we were babies together.
I did not tell him of my marriage, because I thought you might not
like it, and I gave my real maiden name, and an address at the post-
office here. But God knows if the letter will ever reach him.
'Do write me an answer, and send something.--Your affectionate wife,
EUNICE.'
'FRIDAY,
October 28.
'MY DEAR HUSBAND,--The order for ten pounds has just come, and I am
truly glad to get it. But why will you write so bitterly? Ah--
well, if I had only had the money I should have been on my way to
America by this time, so don't think I want to bore you of my own
free-will. Who can you have met with at that new place? Remember I
say this in no malignant tone, but certainly the facts go to prove
that you have deserted me! You are inconstant--I know it. O, why
are you so? Now I have lost you, I love you in spite of your
neglect. I am weakly fond--that's my nature. I fear that upon the
whole my life has been wasted. I know there is another woman
supplanting me in your heart--yes, I know it. Come to me--do come.
EUNICE.'
'41 CHARLES SQUARE, HOXTON,
November
19.
'DEAR AENEAS,--Here I am back again after my visit. Why should you
have been so enraged at my finding your exact address? Any woman
would have tried to do it--you know she would have. And no woman
would have lived under assumed names so long as I did. I repeat
that I did not call myself Mrs. Manston until I came to this lodging
at the beginning of this month--what could you expect?
'A helpless creature I, had not fortune favoured me unexpectedly.
Banished as I was from your house at dawn, I did not suppose the
indignity was about to lead to important results. But in crossing
the park I overheard the conversation of a young man and woman who
had also risen early. I believe her to be the girl who has won you
away from me. Well, their conversation concerned you and Miss
Aldclyffe, VERY PECULIARLY. The remarkable thing is that you
yourself, without knowing it, told me of what, added to their
conversation, completely reveals a secret to me that neither of you
understand. Two negatives never made such a telling positive
before. One clue more, and you would see it. A single
consideration prevents my revealing it--just one doubt as to whether
your ignorance was real, and was not feigned to deceive me.
Civility now, please.
EUNICE.'
'41 CHARLES SQUARE,
Tuesday, November 22.
'MY DARLING HUSBAND,--Monday will suit me excellently for coming. I
have acted exactly up to your instructions, and have sold my rubbish
at the broker's in the next street. All this movement and bustle is
delightful to me after the weeks of monotony I have endured. It is
a relief to wish the place good-bye--London always has seemed so
much more foreign to me than Liverpool The mid-day train on Monday
will do nicely for me. I shall be anxiously looking out for you on
Sunday night.
'I hope so much that you are not angry with me for writing to Miss
Aldclyffe. You are not, dear, are you? Forgive me.--Your loving
wife, EUNICE.'
This was the last of the letters from the wife to the husband. One
other, in Mrs. Manston's handwriting, and in the same packet, was
differently addressed.
'THREE TRANTERS INN, CARRIFORD,
November 28, 1864.
'DEAR COUSIN JAMES,--Thank you indeed for answering my letter so
promptly. When I called at the post-office yesterday I did not in
the least think there would be one. But I must leave this subject.
I write again at once under the strangest and saddest conditions it
is possible to conceive.
'I did not tell you in my last that I was a married woman. Don't
blame me--it was my husband's influence. I hardly know where to
begin my story. I had been living apart from him for a time--then
he sent for me (this was last week) and I was glad to go to him.
Then this is what he did. He promised to fetch me, and did not--
leaving me to do the journey alone. He promised to meet me at the
station here--he did not. I went on through the darkness to his
house, and found his door locked and himself away from home. I have
been obliged to come here, and I write to you in a strange room in a
strange village inn! I choose the present moment to write to drive
away my misery. Sorrow seems a sort of pleasure when you detail it
on paper--poor pleasure though.
'But this is what I want to know--and I am ashamed to tell it. I
would gladly do as you say, and come to you as a housekeeper, but I
have not the money even for a steerage passage. James, do you want
me badly enough--do you pity me enough to send it? I could manage
to subsist in London upon the proceeds of my sale for another month
or six weeks. Will you send it to the same address at the post-
office? But how do I know that you . . . '
Thus the letter ended. From creases in the paper it was plain that
the writer, having got so far, had become dissatisfied with her
production, and had crumpled it in her hand. Was it to write
another, or not to write at all?
The next thing Anne Seaway perceived was that the fragmentary story
she had coaxed out of Manston, to the effect that his wife had left
England for America, might be truthful, according to two of these
letters, corroborated by the evidence of the railway-porter. And
yet, at first, he had sworn in a passion that his wife was most
certainly consumed in the fire.
If she had been burnt, this letter, written in her bedroom, and
probably thrust into her pocket when she relinquished it, would have
been burnt with her. Nothing was surer than that. Why, then, did
he say she was burnt, and never show Anne herself this letter?
The question suddenly raised a new and much stranger one--kindling a
burst of amazement in her. How did Manston become possessed of this
letter?
That fact of possession was certainly the most remarkable revelation
of all in connection with this epistle, and perhaps had something to
do with his reason for never showing it to her.
She knew by several proofs, that before his marriage with Cytherea,
and up to the time of the porter's confession, Manston believed--
honestly believed--that Cytherea would be his lawful wife, and
hence, of course, that his wife Eunice was dead. So that no
communication could possibly have passed between his wife and
himself from the first moment that he believed her dead on the night
of the fire, to the day of his wedding. And yet he had that letter.
How soon afterwards could they have communicated with each other?
The existence of the letter--as much as, or more than its contents--
implying that Mrs Manston was not burnt, his belief in that calamity
must have terminated at the moment he obtained possession of the
letter, if no earlier. Was, then, the only solution to the riddle
that Anne could discern, the true one?--that he had communicated
with his wife somewhere about the commencement of Anne's residence
with him, or at any time since?
It was the most unlikely thing on earth that a woman who had
forsaken 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 window-shutters fixed on the outside of the window,
as is usual in the back portions of old country-houses. The
shutters were hinged one on each side of the opening, and met in the
middle, where they were fastened by a bolt passing continuously
through them and the wood mullion within, the bolt being secured on
the inside by a pin, which was seldom inserted till Manston and
herself were about to retire for the night; sometimes not at all.
If she returned to the door of the room she might be discovered at
any moment, but could she listen at the window, which overlooked a
part of the garden never visited after nightfall, she would be safe
from disturbance. The idea was worth a trial.
She glided round to the window, took the head of the bolt between
her finger and thumb, and softly screwed it round until it was
entirely withdrawn from its position. The shutters remained as
before, whilst, where the bolt had come out, was now a shining hole
three-quarters of an inch in diameter, through which one might see
into the middle of the room. She applied her eye to the orifice.
Miss Aldclyffe and Manston were both standing; Manston with his back
to the window, his companion facing it. The lady's demeanour was
severe, condemnatory, and haughty. No more was to be seen; Anne
then turned sideways, leant with her shoulder against the shutters
and placed her ear upon the hole.
'You know where,' said Miss Aldclyffe. 'And how could you, a man,
act a double deceit like this?'
'Men do strange things sometimes.'
'What was your reason--come?'
'A mere whim.'
'I might even believe that, if the woman were handsomer than
Cytherea, or if you had been married some time to Cytherea and had
grown tired of her.'
'And can't you believe it, too, under these conditions; that I
married Cytherea, gave her up because I heard that my wife was
alive, found that my wife would not come to live with me, and then,
not to let any woman I love so well as Cytherea run any risk of
being displaced and ruined in reputation, should my wife ever think
fit to return, induced this woman to come to me, as being better
than no companion at all?'
'I cannot believe it. Your love for Cytherea was not of such a kind
as that excuse would imply. It was Cytherea or nobody with you. As
an object of passion, you did not desire the company of this Anne
Seaway at all, and certainly not so much as to madly risk your
reputation by bringing her here in the way you have done. I am sure
you didn't, AEneas.'
'So am I,' he said bluntly.
Miss Aldclyffe uttered an exclamation of astonishment; the
confession was like a blow in its suddenness. She began to reproach
him bitterly, and with tears.
'How could you overthrow my plans, disgrace the only girl I ever had
any respect for, by such inexplicable doings!. . . That woman must
leave this place--the country perhaps. Heavens! the truth will leak
out in a day or two!'
'She must do no such thing, and the truth must be stifled somehow--
nobody knows how. If I stay here, or on any spot of the civilized
globe, as AEneas Manston, this woman must live with me as my wife,
or I am damned past redemption!'
'I will not countenance your keeping her, whatever your motive may
be.'
'You must do something,' he murmured. 'You must. Yes, you must.'
'I never will,' she said. 'It is a criminal act.'
He looked at her earnestly. 'Will you not support me through this
deception if my very life depends upon it? Will you not?'
'Nonsense! Life! It will be a scandal to you, but she must leave
this place. It will out sooner or later, and the exposure had
better come now.'
Manston repeated gloomily the same words. 'My life depends upon
your supporting me--my very life.'
He then came close to her, and spoke into her ear. Whilst he spoke
he held her head to his mouth with both his hands. Strange
expressions came over her face; the workings of her mouth were
painful to observe. Still he held her and whispered on.
The only words that could be caught by Anne Seaway, confused as her
hearing frequently was by the moan of the wind and the waterfall in
her outer ear, were these of Miss Aldclyffe, in tones which
absolutely quivered: 'They have no money. What can they prove?'
The listener tasked herself to the utmost to catch his answer, but
it was in vain. Of the remainder of the colloquy one fact alone was
plain to Anne, and that only inductively--that Miss Aldclyffe, from
what he had revealed to her, was going to scheme body and soul on
Manston's behalf.
Miss Aldclyffe seemed now to have no further reason for remaining,
yet she lingered awhile as if loth to leave him. When, finally, the
crestfallen and agitated lady made preparations for departure, Anne
quickly inserted the bolt, ran round to the entrance archway, and
down the steps into the park. Here she stood close to the trunk of
a huge lime-tree, which absorbed her dark outline into its own.
In a few minutes she saw Manston, with Miss Aldclyffe leaning on his
arm, cross the glade before her and proceed in the direction of the
house. She watched them ascend the rise and advance, as two black
spots, towards the mansion. The appearance of an oblong space of
light in the dark mass of walls denoted that the door was opened.
Miss Aldclyffe's outline became visible upon it; the door shut her
in, and all was darkness again. The form of Manston returning alone
arose from the gloom, and passed by Anne in her hiding-place.
Waiting outside a quarter of an hour longer, that no suspicion of
any kind might be excited, Anne returned to the old manor-house.
4. FROM EIGHT TO ELEVEN O'CLOCK P.M.
Manston was very friendly that evening. It was evident to her, now
that she was behind the scenes, that he was making desperate efforts
to disguise the real state of his mind.
Her terror of him did not decrease. They sat down to supper,
Manston still talking cheerfully. But what is keener than the eye
of a mistrustful woman? A man's cunning is to it as was the armour
of Sisera to the thin tent-nail. She found, in spite of his
adroitness, that he was attempting something more than a disguise of
his feeling. He was trying to distract her attention, that he might
be unobserved in some special movement of his hands.
What a moment it was for her then! The whole surface of her body
became attentive. She allowed him no chance whatever. We know the
duplicated condition at such times--when the existence divides
itself into two, and the ostensibly innocent chatterer stands in
front, like another person, to hide the timorous spy.
Manston played the same game, but more palpably. The meal was
nearly over when he seemed possessed of a new idea of how his object
might be accomplished. He tilted back his chair with a reflective
air, and looked steadily at the clock standing against the wall
opposite to him. He said sententiously, 'Few faces are capable of
expressing more by dumb show than the face of a clock. You may see
in it every variety of incentive--from the softest seductions to
negligence to the strongest hints for action.'
'Well, in what way?' she inquired. His drift was, as yet, quite
unintelligible to her.
'Why, for instance: look at the cold, methodical, unromantic,
business-like air of all the right-angled positions of the hands.
They make a man set about work in spite of himself. Then look at
the piquant shyness of its face when the two hands are over each
other. Several attitudes imply "Make ready." The "make ready" of
ten minutes to one differs from the "make ready" of ten minutes to
twelve, as youth differs from age. "Upward and onward" says twenty-
five minutes to eleven. Mid-day or midnight expresses distinctly
"It is done." You surely have noticed that?'
'Yes, I have.'
He continued with affected quaintness:--
'The easy dash of ten minutes past seven, the rakish recklessness of
a quarter past, the drooping weariness of twenty-five minutes past,
must have been observed by everybody.'
'Whatever amount of truth there may be, there is a good deal of
imagination in your fancy,' she said.
He still contemplated the clock.
'Then, again, the general finish of the face has a great effect upon
the eye. This old-fashioned brass-faced one we have here, with its
arched top, half-moon slit for the day of the month, and ship
rocking at the upper part, impresses me with the notion of its being
an old cynic, elevating his brows, whose thoughts can be seen
wavering between good and evil.'
A thought now enlightened her: the clock was behind her, and he
wanted to get her back turned. She dreaded turning, yet, not to
excite his suspicion, she was on her guard; she quickly looked
behind her at the clock as he spoke, recovering her old position
again instantly. The time had not been long enough for any action
whatever on his part.
'Ah,' he casually remarked, and at the same minute began to pour her
out a glass of wine. 'Speaking of the clock has reminded me that it
must nearly want winding up. Remember that it is wound to-night.
Suppose you do it at once, my dear.'
There was no possible way of evading the act. She resolutely turned
to perform the operation: anything was better than that he should
suspect her. It was an old-fashioned eight-day clock, of
workmanship suited to the rest of the antique furniture that Manston
had collected there, and ground heavily during winding.
Anne had given up all idea of being able to watch him during the
interval, and the noise of the wheels prevented her learning
anything by her ears. But, as she wound, she caught sight of his
shadow on the wall at her right hand.
What was he doing? He was in the very act of pouring something into
her glass of wine.
He had completed the manoeuvre before she had done winding. She
methodically closed the clock-case and turned round again. When she
faced him he was sitting in his chair as before she had risen.
In a familiar scene which has hitherto been pleasant it is difficult
to realize that an added condition, which does not alter its aspect,
can have made it terrible. The woman thought that his action must
have been prompted by no other intent than that of poisoning her,
and yet she could not instantly put on a fear of her position.
And before she had grasped these consequences, another supposition
served to make her regard the first as unlikely, if not absurd. It
was the act of a madman to take her life in a manner so easy of
discovery, unless there were far more reason for the crime than any
that Manston could possibly have.
Was it not merely his intention, in tampering with her wine, to make
her sleep soundly that night? This was in harmony with her original
suspicion, that he intended secretly to abscond. At any rate, he
was going to set about some stealthy proceeding, as to which she was
to be kept in utter darkness. The difficulty now was to avoid
drinking the wine.
By means of one pretext and another she put off taking her glass for
nearly five minutes, but he eyed her too frequently to allow her to
throw the potion under the grate. It became necessary to take one
sip. This she did, and found an opportunity of absorbing it in her
handkerchief.
Plainly he had no idea of her countermoves. The scheme seemed to
him in proper train, and he turned to poke out the fire. She
instantly seized the glass, and poured its contents down her bosom.
When he faced round again she was holding the glass to her lips,
empty.
In due course he locked the doors and saw that the shutters were
fastened. She attended to a few closing details of housewifery, and
a few minutes later they retired for the night.
5. FROM ELEVEN O'CLOCK TO MIDNIGHT
When Manston was persuaded, by the feigned heaviness of her
breathing, that Anne Seaway was asleep, he softly arose, and dressed
himself in the gloom. With ears strained to their utmost she heard
him complete this operation; then he took something from his pocket,
put it in the drawer of the dressing-table, went to the door, and
down the stairs. She glided out of bed and looked in the drawer.
He had only restored to its place a small phial she had seen there
before. It was labelled 'Battley's Solution of Opium.' She felt
relieved that her life had not been attempted. That was to have
been her sleeping-draught. No time was to be lost if she meant to
be a match for him. She followed him in her nightdress. When she
reached the foot of the staircase he was in the office and had
closed the door, under which a faint gleam showed that he had
obtained a light. She crept to the door, but could not venture to
open it, however slightly. Placing her ear to the panel, she could
hear him tearing up papers of some sort, and a brighter and
quivering ray of light coming from the threshold an instant later,
implied that he was burning them. By the slight noise of his
footsteps on the uncarpeted floor, she at length imagined that he
was approaching the door. She flitted upstairs again and crept into
bed.
Manston returned to the bedroom close upon her heels, and entered
it--again without a light. Standing motionless for an instant to
assure himself that she still slept, he went to the drawer in which
their ready-money was kept, and removed the casket that contained
it. Anne's ear distinctly caught the rustle of notes, and the chink
of the gold as he handled it. Some he placed in his pocket, some he
returned to its place. He stood thinking, as it were weighing a
possibility. While lingering thus, he noticed the reflected image
of his own face in the glass--pale and spectre-like in its
indistinctness. The sight seemed to be the feather which turned the
balance of indecision: he drew a heavy breath, retired from the
room, and passed downstairs. She heard him unbar the back-door, and
go out into the yard.
Feeling safe in a conclusion that he did not intend to return to the
bedroom again, she arose, and hastily dressed herself. On going to
the door of the apartment she found that he had locked it behind
him. 'A precaution--it can be no more,' she muttered. Yet she was
all the more perplexed and excited on this account. Had he been
going to leave home immediately, he would scarcely have taken the
trouble to lock her in, holding the belief that she was in a drugged
sleep. The lock shot into a mortice, so that there was no
possibility of her pushing back the bolt. How should she follow
him? Easily. An inner closet opened from the bedroom: it was
large, and had some time heretofore been used as a dressing or bath
room, but had been found inconvenient from having no other outlet to
the landing. The window of this little room looked out upon the
roof of the porch, which was flat and covered with lead. Anne took
a pillow from the bed, gently opened the casement of the inner room
and stepped forth on the flat. There, leaning over the edge of the
small parapet that ornamented the porch, she dropped the pillow upon
the gravel path, and let herself down over the parapet by her hands
till her toes swung about two feet from the ground. From this
position she adroitly alighted upon the pillow, and stood in the
path.
Since she had come indoors from her walk in the early part of the
evening the moon had risen. But the thick clouds overspreading the
whole landscape rendered the dim light pervasive and grey: it
appeared as an attribute of the air. Anne crept round to the back
of the house, listening intently. The steward had had at least ten
minutes' start of her. She had waited here whilst one might count
fifty, when she heard a movement in the outhouse--a fragment once
attached to the main building. This outhouse was partitioned into
an outer and an inner room, which had been a kitchen and a scullery
before the connecting erections were pulled down, but they were now
used respectively as a brewhouse and workshop, the only means of
access to the latter being through the brewhouse. The outer door of
this first apartment was usually fastened by a padlock on the
exterior. It was now closed, but not fastened. Manston was
evidently in the outhouse.
She slightly moved the door. The interior of the brewhouse was
wrapped in gloom, but a streak of light fell towards her in a line
across the floor from the inner or workshop door, which was not
quite closed. This light was unexpected, none having been visible
through hole or crevice. Glancing in, the woman found that he had
placed cloths and mats at the various apertures, and hung a sack at
the window to prevent the egress of a single ray. She could also
perceive from where she stood that the bar of light fell across the
brewing-copper just outside the inner door, and that upon it lay the
key of her bedroom. The illuminated interior of the workshop was
also partly visible from her position through the two half-open
doors. Manston was engaged in emptying a large cupboard of the
tools, gallipots, and old iron it contained. When it was quite
cleared he took a chisel, and with it began to withdraw the hooks
and shoulder-nails holding the cupboard to the wall. All these
being loosened, he extended his arms, lifted the cupboard bodily
from the brackets under it, and deposited it on the floor beside
him.
That portion of the wall which had been screened by the cupboard was
now laid bare. This, it appeared, had been plastered more recently
than the bulk of the outhouse. Manston loosened the plaster with
some kind of tool, flinging the pieces into a basket as they fell.
Having now stripped clear about two feet area of wall, he inserted a
crowbar between the joints of the bricks beneath, softly wriggling
it until several were loosened. There was now disclosed the mouth
of an old oven, which was apparently contrived in the thickness of
the wall, and having fallen into disuse, had been closed up with
bricks in this manner. It was formed after the simple old-fashioned
plan of oven-building--a mere oblate cavity without a flue.
Manston now stretched his arm into the oven, dragged forth a heavy
weight of great bulk, and let it slide to the ground. The woman who
watched him could see the object plainly. It was a common corn-
sack, nearly full, and was tied at the mouth in the usual way.
The steward had once or twice started up, as if he had heard sounds,
and his motions now became more cat-like still. On a sudden he put
out the light. Anne had made no noise, yet a foreign noise of some
kind had certainly been made in the intervening portion of the
house. She heard it. 'One of the rats,' she thought.
He seemed soon to recover from his alarm, but changed his tactics
completely. He did not light his candle--going on with his work in
the dark. She had only sounds to go by now, and, judging as well as
she could from these, he was piling up the bricks which closed the
oven's mouth as they had been before he disturbed them. The query
that had not left her brain all the interval of her inspection--how
should she get back into her bedroom again?--now received a
solution. Whilst he was replacing the cupboard, she would glide
across the brewhouse, take the key from the top of the copper, run
upstairs, unlock the door, and bring back the key again: if he
returned to bed, which was unlikely, he would think the lock had
failed to catch in the staple. This thought and intention,
occupying such length of words, flashed upon her in an instant, and
hardly disturbed her strong curiosity to stay and learn the meaning
of his actions in the workshop.
Slipping sideways through the first door and closing it behind her,
she advanced into the darkness towards the second, making every
individual footfall with the greatest care, lest the fragments of
rubbish on the floor should crackle beneath her tread. She soon
stood close by the copper, and not more than a foot from the door of
the room occupied by Manston himself, from which position she could
distinctly hear him breathe between each exertion, although it was
far too dark to discern anything of him.
To secure the key of her chamber was her first anxiety, and
accordingly she cautiously reached out with her hand to where it
lay. Instead of touching it, her fingers came in contact with the
boot of a human being.
She drooped faint in a cold sweat. It was the foot either of a man
or woman, standing on the brewing-copper where the key had lain. A
warm foot, covered with a polished boot.
The startling discovery so terrified her that she could hardly
repress a sound. She withdrew her hand with a motion like the
flight of an arrow. Her touch was so light that the leather seemed
to have been thick enough to keep the owner of the foot in entire
ignorance of it, and the noise of Manston's scraping might have been
quite sufficient to drown the slight rustle of her dress.
The person was obviously not the steward: he was still busy. It
was somebody who, since the light had been extinguished, had taken
advantage of the gloom, to come from some dark recess in the
brewhouse and stand upon the brickwork of the copper. The fear
which had at first paralyzed her lessened with the birth of a sense
that fear now was utter failure: she was in a desperate position
and must abide by the consequences. The motionless person on the
copper was, equally with Manston, quite unconscious of her
proximity, and she ventured to advance her hand again, feeling
behind the feet, till she found the key. On its return to her side,
her finger-tip skimmed the lower verge of a trousers-leg.
It was a man, then, who stood there. To go to the door just at this
time was impolitic, and she shrank back into an inner corner to
wait. The comparative security from discovery that her new position
ensured resuscitated reason a little, and empowered her to form some
logical inferences:--
1. The man who stood on the copper had taken advantage of the
darkness to get there, as she had to enter.
2. The man must have been hidden in the outhouse before she had
reached the door.
3. He must be watching Manston with much calculation and system,
and for purposes of his own.
She could now tell by the noises that Manston had completed his re-
erection of the cupboard. She heard him replacing the articles it
had contained--bottle by bottle, tool by tool--after which he came
into the brewhouse, went to the window, and pulled down the cloths
covering it; but the window being rather small, this unveiling
scarcely relieved the darkness of the interior. He returned to the
workshop, hoisted something to his back by a jerk, and felt about
the room for some other article. Having found it, he emerged from
the inner door, crossed the brewhouse, and went into the yard.
Directly he stepped out she could see his outline by the light of
the clouded and weakly moon. The sack was slung at his back, and in
his hand he carried a spade.
Anne now waited in her corner in breathless suspense for the
proceedings of the other man. In about half-a-minute she heard him
descend from the copper, and then the square opening of the doorway
showed the outline of this other watcher passing through it
likewise. The form was that of a broad-shouldered man enveloped in
a long coat. He vanished after the steward.
The woman vented a sigh of relief, and moved forward to follow.
Simultaneously, she discovered that the watcher whose foot she had
touched was, in his turn, watched and followed also.
It was by one of her own sex. Anne Seaway shrank backward again.
The unknown woman came forward from the further side of the yard,
and pondered awhile in hesitation. Tall, dark, and closely wrapped,
she stood up from the earth like a cypress. She moved, crossed the
yard without producing the slightest disturbance by her footsteps,
and went in the direction the others had taken.
Anne waited yet another minute--then in her turn noiselessly
followed the last woman.
But so impressed was she with the sensation of people in hiding,
that in coming out of the yard she turned her head to see if any
person were following her, in the same way. Nobody was visible, but
she discerned, standing behind the angle of the stable, Manston's
horse and gig, ready harnessed.
He did intend to fly after all, then, she thought. He must have
placed the horse in readiness, in the interval between his leaving
the house and her exit by the window. However, there was not time
to weigh this branch of the night's events. She turned about again,
and continued on the trail of the other three.
6. FROM MIDNIGHT TO HALF-PAST ONE A.M.
Intentness pervaded everything; Night herself seemed to have become
a watcher.
The four persons proceeded across the glade, and into the park
plantation, at equi-distances of about seventy yards. Here the
ground, completely overhung by the foliage, was coated with a thick
moss which was as soft as velvet beneath their feet. The first
watcher, that is, the man walking immediately behind Manston, now
fell back, when Manston's housekeeper, knowing the ground pretty
well, dived circuitously among the trees and got directly behind the
steward, who, encumbered with his load, had proceeded but slowly.
The other woman seemed now to be about opposite to Anne, or a little
in advance, but on Manston's other hand.
He reached a pit, midway between the waterfall and the engine-house.
There he stopped, wiped his face, and listened.
Into this pit had drifted uncounted generations of withered leaves,
half filling it. Oak, beech, and chestnut, rotten and brown alike,
mingled themselves in one fibrous mass. Manston descended into the
midst of them, placed his sack on the ground, and raking the leaves
aside into a large heap, began digging. Anne softly drew nearer,
crept into a bush, and turning her head to survey the rest, missed
the man who had dropped behind, and whom we have called the first
watcher. Concluding that he, too, had hidden himself, she turned
her attention to the second watcher, the other woman, who had
meanwhile advanced near to where Anne lay in hiding, and now seated
herself behind a tree, still closer to the steward than was Anne
Seaway.
Here and thus Anne remained concealed. The crunch of the steward's
spade, as it cut into the soft vegetable mould, was plainly
perceptible to her ears when the periodic cessations between the
creaks of the engine concurred with a lull in the breeze, which
otherwise brought the subdued roar of the cascade from the further
side of the bank that screened it. A large hole--some four or five
feet deep--had been excavated by Manston in about twenty minutes.
Into this he immediately placed the sack, and then began filling in
the earth, and treading it down. Lastly he carefully raked the
whole mass of dead and dry leaves into the middle of the pit,
burying the ground with them as they had buried it before.
For a hiding-place the spot was unequalled. The thick accumulation
of leaves, which had not been disturbed for centuries, might not be
disturbed again for centuries to come, whilst their lower layers
still decayed and added to the mould beneath.
By the time this work was ended the sky had grown clearer, and Anne
could now see distinctly the face of the other woman, stretching
from behind the tree, seemingly forgetful of her position in her
intense contemplation of the actions of the steward. Her
countenance was white and motionless.
It was impossible that Manston should not soon notice her. At the
completion of his labour he turned, and did so.
'Ho--you here!' he exclaimed.
'Don't think I am a spy upon you,' she said, in an imploring
whisper. Anne recognized the voice as Miss Aldclyffe's.
The trembling lady added hastily another remark, which was drowned
in the recurring creak of the engine close at hand The first
watcher, if he had come no nearer than his original position, was
too far off to hear any part of this dialogue, on account of the
roar of the falling water, which could reach him unimpeded by the
bank.
The remark of Miss Aldclyffe to Manston had plainly been concerning
the first watcher, for Manston, with his spade in his hand,
instantly rushed to where the man was concealed, and, before the
latter could disengage himself from the boughs, the steward struck
him on the head with the blade of the instrument. The man fell to
the ground.
'Fly!' said Miss Aldclyffe to Manston. Manston vanished amidst the
trees. Miss Aldclyffe went off in a contrary direction.
Anne Seaway was about to run away likewise, when she turned and
looked at the fallen man. He lay on his face, motionless.
Many of these women who own to no moral code show considerable
magnanimity when they see people in trouble. To act right simply
because it is one's duty is proper; but a good action which is the
result of no law of reflection shines more than any. She went up to
him and gently turned him over, upon which he began to show signs of
life. By her assistance he was soon able to stand upright.
He looked about him with a bewildered air, endeavouring to collect
his ideas. 'Who are you?' he said to the woman, mechanically.
It was bad policy now to attempt disguise. 'I am the supposed Mrs.
Manston,' she said. 'Who are you?'
'I am the officer employed by Mr. Raunham to sift this mystery--
which may be criminal.' He stretched his limbs, pressed his head,
and seemed gradually to awake to a sense of having been incautious
in his utterance. 'Never you mind who I am,' he continued. 'Well,
it doesn't matter now, either--it will no longer be a secret.'
He stooped for his hat and ran in the direction the steward had
taken--coming back again after the lapse of a minute.
'It's only an aggravated assault, after all,' he said hastily,
'until we have found out for certain what's buried here. It may be
only a bag of building rubbish; but it may be more. Come and help
me dig.' He seized the spade with the awkwardness of a town man,
and went into the pit, continuing a muttered discourse. 'It's no
use my running after him single-handed,' he said. 'He's ever so far
off by this time. The best step is to see what is here.'
It was far easier for the detective to re-open the hole than it had
been for Manston to form it. The leaves were raked away, the loam
thrown out, and the sack dragged forth.
'Hold this,' he said to Anne, whose curiosity still kept her
standing near. He turned on the light of a dark lantern he had
brought, and gave it into her hand.
The string which bound the mouth of the sack was now cut. The
officer laid the bag on its side, seized it by the bottom, and
jerked forth the contents. A large package was disclosed, carefully
wrapped up in impervious tarpaulin, also well tied. He was on the
point of pulling open the folds at one end, when a light coloured
thread of something, hanging on the outside, arrested his eye. He
put his hand upon it; it felt stringy, and adhered to his fingers.
'Hold the light close,' he said.
She held it close. He raised his hand to the glass, and they both
peered at an almost intangible filament he held between his finger
and thumb. It was a long hair; the hair of a woman.
'God! I couldn't believe it--no, I couldn't believe it!' the
detective whispered, horror-struck. 'And I have lost the man for
the present through my unbelief. Let's get into a sheltered place.
. . . Now wait a minute whilst I prove it.'
He thrust his hand into his waistcoat pocket, and withdrew thence a
minute packet of brown paper. Spreading it out he disclosed, coiled
in the middle, another long hair. It was the hair the clerk's wife
had found on Manston's pillow nine days before the Carriford fire.
He held the two hairs to the light: they were both of a pale-brown
hue. He laid them parallel and stretched out his arms: they were
of the same length to a nicety. The detective turned to Anne.
'It is the body of his first wife,' he said quietly. 'He murdered
her, as Mr. Springrove and the rector suspected--but how and when,
God only knows.'
'And I!' exclaimed Anne Seaway, a probable and natural sequence of
events and motives explanatory of the whole crime--events and
motives shadowed forth by the letter, Manston's possession of it,
his renunciation of Cytherea, and instalment of herself--flashing
upon her mind with the rapidity of lightning.
'Ah--I see,' said the detective, standing unusually close to her:
and a handcuff was on her wrist. 'You must come with me, madam.
Knowing as much about a secret murder as God knows is a very
suspicious thing: it doesn't make you a goddess--far from it.' He
directed the bull's-eye into her face.
'Pooh--lead on,' she said scornfully, 'and don't lose your principal
actor for the sake of torturing a poor subordinate like me.'
He loosened her hand, gave her his arm, and dragged her out of the
grove--making her run beside him till they had reached the rectory.
A light was burning here, and an auxiliary of the detective's
awaiting him: a horse ready harnessed to a spring-cart was standing
outside.
'You have come--I wish I had known that,' the detective said to his
assistant, hurriedly and angrily. 'Well, we've blundered--he's
gone--you should have been here, as I said! I was sold by that
woman, Miss Aldclyffe--she watched me.' He hastily gave directions
in an undertone to this man. The concluding words were, 'Go in to
the rector--he's up. Detain Miss Aldclyffe. I, in the meantime, am
driving to Casterbridge with this one, and for help. We shall be
sure to have him when it gets light.'
He assisted Anne into the vehicle, and drove off with her. As they
went, the clear, dry road showed before them, between the grassy
quarters at each side, like a white riband, and made their progress
easy. They came to a spot where the highway was overhung by dense
firs for some distance on both sides. It was totally dark here.
There was a smash; and a rude shock. In the very midst of its
length, at the point where the road began to drop down a hill, the
detective drove against something with a jerk which nearly flung
them both to the ground.
The man recovered himself, placed Anne on the seat, and reached out
his hand. He found that the off-wheel of his gig was locked in that
of another conveyance of some kind.
'Hoy!' said the officer.
Nobody answered.
'Hoy, you man asleep there!' he said again.
No reply.
'Well, that's odd--this comes of the folly of travelling without
gig-lamps because you expect the dawn.' He jumped to the ground and
turned on his lantern.
There was the gig which had obstructed him, standing in the middle
of the road; a jaded horse harnessed to it, but no human being in or
near the vehicle.
'Do you know whose gig this is?' he said to the woman.
'No,' she said sullenly. But she did recognize it as the steward's.
'I'll swear it's Manston's! Come, I can hear it by your tone.
However, you needn't say anything which may criminate you. What
forethought the man must have had--how carefully he must have
considered possible contingencies! Why, he must have got the horse
and gig ready before he began shifting the body.'
He listened for a sound among the trees. None was to be heard but
the occasional scamper of a rabbit over the withered leaves. He
threw the light of his lantern through a gap in the hedge, but could
see nothing beyond an impenetrable thicket. It was clear that
Manston was not many yards off, but the question was how to find
him. Nothing could be done by the detective just then, encumbered
as he was by the horse and Anne. If he had entered the thicket on a
search unaided, Manston might have stepped unobserved from behind a
bush and murdered him with the greatest ease. Indeed, there were
such strong reasons for the exploit in Manston's circumstances at
that moment that without showing cowardice, his pursuer felt it
hazardous to remain any longer where he stood.
He hastily tied the head of Manston's horse to the back of his own
vehicle, that the steward might be deprived of the use of any means
of escape other than his own legs, and drove on thus with his
prisoner to the county-town. Arrived there, he lodged her in the
police-station, and then took immediate steps for the capture of
Manston.
