by Thomas Hardy
XVIII. THE EVENTS OF THREE DAYS
1. MARCH THE EIGHTEENTH
Sunday morning had come, and Owen was trudging over the six miles ofhill and dale that lay between Tolchurch and Carriford.
Edward Springrove's answer to the last letter, after expressing hisamazement at the strange contradiction between the verses and Mrs.Morris's letter, had been to the effect that he had again visited theneighbour of the dead Mr. Brown, and had received as near a descriptionof Mrs. Manston as it was possible to get at second-hand, and byhearsay. She was a tall woman, wide at the shoulders, and full-chested,and she had a straight and rather large nose. The colour of her eyes theinformant did not know, for she had only seen the lady in the streetas she went in or out. This confusing remark was added. The woman hadalmost recognized Mrs. Manston when she had called with her husbandlately, but she had kept her veil down. Her residence, before she cameto Hoxton, was quite unknown to this next-door neighbour, and Edwardcould get no manner of clue to it from any other source.
Owen reached the church-door a few minutes before the bells beganchiming. Nobody was yet in the church, and he walked round the aisles.From Cytherea's frequent description of how and where herself and othersused to sit, he knew where to look for Manston's seat; and after twoor three errors of examination he took up a prayer-book in which waswritten 'Eunice Manston.' The book was nearly new, and the date of thewriting about a month earlier. One point was at any rate established:that the woman living with Manston was presented to the world as noother than his lawful wife.
The quiet villagers of Carriford required no pew-opener in their placeof worship: natives and in-dwellers had their own seats, and strangerssat where they could. Graye took a seat in the nave, on the northside, close behind a pillar dividing it from the north aisle, which wascompletely allotted to Miss Aldclyffe, her farmers, and her retainers,Manston's pew being in the midst of them. Owen's position on the otherside of the passage was a little in advance of Manston's seat, and sosituated that by leaning forward he could look directly into the faceof any person sitting there, though, if he sat upright, he was whollyhidden from such a one by the intervening pillar.
Aiming to keep his presence unknown to Manston if possible, Owen sat,without once turning his head, during the entrance of the congregation.A rustling of silk round by the north passage and into Manston's seat,told him that some woman had entered there, and as it seemed from theaccompaniment of heavier footsteps, Manston was with her.
Immediately upon rising up, he looked intently in that direction, andsaw a lady standing at the end of the seat nearest himself. Portions ofManston's figure appeared on the other side of her. In two glances Grayeread thus many of her characteristics, and in the following order:--
She was a tall woman.
She was broad at the shoulders.
She was full-bosomed.
She was easily recognizable from the photograph but nothing could bediscerned of the colour of her eyes.
With a preoccupied mind he withdrew into his nook, and heard theservice continued--only conscious of the fact that in opposition to thesuspicion which one odd circumstance had bred in his sister concerningthis woman, all ostensible and ordinary proofs and probabilities tendedto the opposite conclusion. There sat the genuine original of theportrait--could he wish for more? Cytherea wished for more. EuniceManston's eyes were blue, and it was necessary that this woman's eyesshould be blue also.
Unskilled labour wastes in beating against the bars ten times the energyexerted by the practised hand in the effective direction. Owen felt thisto be the case in his own and Edward's attempts to follow up the clueafforded them. Think as he might, he could not think of a crucial testin the matter absorbing him, which should possess the indispensableattribute--a capability of being applied privately; that in the event ofits proving the lady to be the rightful owner of the name she used, hemight recede without obloquy from an untenable position.
But to see Mrs. Manston's eyes from where he sat was impossible, and hecould do nothing in the shape of a direct examination at present. MissAldclyffe had possibly recognized him, but Manston had not, and feelingthat it was indispensable to keep the purport of his visit a secret fromthe steward, he thought it would be as well, too, to keep his presencein the village a secret from him; at any rate, till the day was over.
At the first opening of the doors, Graye left the church and wanderedaway into the fields to ponder on another scheme. He could not callon Farmer Springrove, as he had intended, until this matter was set atrest. Two hours intervened between the morning and afternoon services.
This time had nearly expired before Owen had struck out any method ofproceeding, or could decide to run the risk of calling at the Old Houseand asking to see Mrs. Manston point-blank. But he had drawn near theplace, and was standing still in the public path, from which a partialview of the front of the building could be obtained, when the bellsbegan chiming for afternoon service. Whilst Graye paused, two personscame from the front door of the half-hidden dwelling whom he presentlysaw to be Manston and his wife. Manston was wearing his old garden-hat,and carried one of the monthly magazines under his arm. Immediatelythey had passed the gateway he branched off and went over the hill in adirection away from the church, evidently intending to ramble along,and read as the humour moved him. The lady meanwhile turned in the otherdirection, and went into the church path.
Owen resolved to make something of this opportunity. He hurried alongtowards the church, doubled round a sharp angle, and came back upon theother path, by which Mrs. Manston must arrive.
In about three minutes she appeared in sight without a veil. Hediscovered, as she drew nearer, a difficulty which had not struck himat first--that it is not an easy matter to particularize the colour ofa stranger's eyes in a merely casual encounter on a path out of doors.That Mrs. Manston must be brought close to him, and not only so, but tolook closely at him, if his purpose were to be accomplished.
He shaped a plan. It might by chance be effectual; if otherwise, itwould not reveal his intention to her. When Mrs. Manston was withinspeaking distance, he went up to her and said--
'Will you kindly tell me which turning will take me to Casterbridge?'
'The second on the right,' said Mrs. Manston.
Owen put on a blank look: he held his hand to his ear--conveying to thelady the idea that he was deaf.
She came closer and said more distinctly--
'The second turning on the right.'
Owen flushed a little. He fancied he had beheld the revelation he was insearch of. But had his eyes deceived him?
Once more he used the ruse, still drawing nearer and intimating by aglance that the trouble he gave her was very distressing to him.
'How very deaf!' she murmured. She exclaimed loudly--
'_The second turning to the right_.'
She had advanced her face to within a foot of his own, and in speakingmouthed very emphatically, fixing her eyes intently upon his. And nowhis first suspicion was indubitably confirmed. Her eyes were as black asmidnight.
All this feigning was most distasteful to Graye. The riddle havingbeen solved, he unconsciously assumed his natural look before she hadwithdrawn her face. She found him to be peering at her as if he wouldread her very soul--expressing with his eyes the notification of which,apart from emotion, the eyes are more capable than any other--inquiry.
Her face changed its expression--then its colour. The natural tint ofthe lighter portions sank to an ashy gray; the pink of her cheeks grewpurpler. It was the precise result which would remain after blood hadleft the face of one whose skin was dark, and artificially coated withpearl-powder and carmine.
She turned her head and moved away, murmuring a hasty reply to Owen'sfarewell remark of 'Good-day,' and with a kind of nervous twitch liftingher hand and smoothing her hair, which was of a light-brown colour.
'She wears false hair,' he thought, 'or has changed its colourartificially. Her true hair matched her eyes.'
And no
w, in spite of what Mr. Brown's neighbours had said about nearlyrecognizing Mrs. Manston on her recent visit--which might have meantanything or nothing; in spite of the photograph, and in spite of hisprevious incredulity; in consequence of the verse, of her silence andbackwardness at the visit to Hoxton with Manston, and of her appearanceand distress at the present moment, Graye had a conviction that thewoman was an impostor.
What could be Manston's reason for such an astounding trick he could byno stretch of imagination divine.
He changed his direction as soon as the woman was out of sight, andplodded along the lanes homeward to Tolchurch.
One new idea was suggested to him by his desire to allay Cytherea'sdread of being claimed, and by the difficulty of believing that thefirst Mrs. Manston lost her life as supposed, notwithstanding theinquest and verdict. Was it possible that the real Mrs. Manston, whowas known to be a Philadelphian by birth, had returned by the trainto London, as the porter had said, and then left the country under anassumed name, to escape that worst kind of widowhood--the misery ofbeing wedded to a fickle, faithless, and truant husband?
In her complicated distress at the news brought by her brother,Cytherea's thoughts at length reverted to her friend, the Rector ofCarriford. She told Owen of Mr. Raunham's warm-hearted behaviour towardsherself, and of his strongly expressed wish to aid her.
'He is not only a good, but a sensible man. We seem to want an old headon our side.'
'And he is a magistrate,' said Owen in a tone of concurrence. Hethought, too, that no harm could come of confiding in the rector, butthere was a difficulty in bringing about the confidence. He wished thathis sister and himself might both be present at an interview with Mr.Raunham, yet it would be unwise for them to call on him together, in thesight of all the servants and parish of Carriford.
There could be no objection to their writing him a letter.
No sooner was the thought born than it was carried out. They wrote tohim at once, asking him to have the goodness to give them some advicethey sadly needed, and begging that he would accept their assurancethat there was a real justification for the additional request theymade--that instead of their calling upon him, he would any evening ofthe week come to their cottage at Tolchurch.
2. MARCH THE TWENTIETH. SIX TO NINE O'CLOCK P.M.
Two evenings later, to the total disarrangement of his dinner-hour, Mr.Raunham appeared at Owen's door. His arrival was hailed with genuinegratitude. The horse was tied to the palings, and the rector usheredindoors and put into the easy-chair.
Then Graye told him the whole story, reminding him that their firstsuspicions had been of a totally different nature, and that inendeavouring to obtain proof of their truth they had stumbled uponmarks which had surprised them into these new uncertainties, thrice asmarvellous as the first, yet more prominent.
Cytherea's heart was so full of anxiety that it superinduced a manner ofconfidence which was a death-blow to all formality. Mr. Raunham took herhand pityingly.
'It is a serious charge,' he said, as a sort of original twig on whichhis thoughts might precipitate themselves.
'Assuming for a moment that such a substitution was rendered an easymatter by fortuitous events,' he continued, 'there is this considerationto be placed beside it--what earthly motive can Mr. Manston have hadwhich would be sufficiently powerful to lead him to run such a verygreat risk? The most abandoned roue could not, at that particularcrisis, have taken such a reckless step for the mere pleasure of a newcompanion.'
Owen had seen that difficulty about the motive; Cytherea had not.
'Unfortunately for us,' the rector resumed, 'no more evidence is to beobtained from the porter, Chinney. I suppose you know what became ofhim? He got to Liverpool and embarked, intending to work his way toAmerica, but on the passage he fell overboard and was drowned. But thereis no doubt of the truth of his confession--in fact, his conduct tendsto prove it true--and no moral doubt of the fact that the real Mrs.Manston left here to go back by that morning's train. This being thecase, then, why, if this woman is not she, did she take no notice of theadvertisement--I mean not necessarily a friendly notice, but from theinformation it afforded her have rendered it impossible that she shouldbe personified without her own connivance?'
'I think that argument is overthrown,' Graye said, 'by my earliestassumption of her hatred of him, weariness of the chain which bound herto him, and a resolve to begin the world anew. Let's suppose she hasmarried another man--somewhere abroad, say; she would be silent for herown sake.'
'You've hit the only genuine possibility,' said Mr. Raunham, tappinghis finger upon his knee. 'That would decidedly dispose of the seconddifficulty. But his motive would be as mysterious as ever.'
Cytherea's pictured dreads would not allow her mind to follow theirconversation. 'She's burnt,' she said. 'O yes; I fear--I fear she is!'
'I don't think we can seriously believe that now, after what hashappened,' said the rector.
Still straining her thought towards the worst, 'Then, perhaps, the firstMrs. Manston was not his wife,' she returned; 'and then I should be hiswife just the same, shouldn't I?'
'They were married safely enough,' said Owen. 'There is abundance ofcircumstantial evidence to prove that.'
'Upon the whole,' said Mr. Raunham, 'I should advise your asking in astraightforward way for legal proof from the steward that the presentwoman is really his original wife--a thing which, to my mind, you shouldhave done at the outset.' He turned to Cytherea kindly, and asked herwhat made her give up her husband so unceremoniously.
She could not tell the rector of her aversion to Manston, and of herunquenched love for Edward.
'Your terrified state no doubt,' he said, answering for her, in themanner of those accustomed to the pulpit. 'But into such a solemncompact as marriage, all-important considerations, both legally andmorally, enter; it was your duty to have seen everything clearly proved.Doubtless Mr. Manston is prepared with proofs, but as it concerns nobodybut yourself that her identity should be publicly established (and byyour absenteeism you act as if you were satisfied) he has not troubledto exhibit them. Nobody else has taken the trouble to prove what doesnot affect them in the least--that's the way of the world always. You,who should have required all things to be made clear, ran away.'
'That was partly my doing,' said Owen.
The same explanation--her want of love for Manston--applied here too,but she shunned the revelation.
'But never mind,' added the rector, 'it was all the greater credit toyour womanhood, perhaps. I say, then, get your brother to write a lineto Mr. Manston, saying you wish to be satisfied that all is legallyclear (in case you should want to marry again, for instance), and I haveno doubt that you will be. Or, if you would rather, I'll write myself?'
'O no, sir, no,' pleaded Cytherea, beginning to blanch, and breathingquickly. 'Please don't say anything. Let me live here with Owen. I am soafraid it will turn out that I shall have to go to Knapwater and be hiswife, and I don't want to go. Do conceal what we have told you. Let himcontinue his deception--it is much the best for me.'
Mr. Raunham at length divined that her love for Manston, if it had everexisted, had transmuted itself into a very different feeling now.
'At any rate,' he said, as he took his leave and mounted his mare, 'Iwill see about it. Rest content, Miss Graye, and depend upon it that Iwill not lead you into difficulty.'
'Conceal it,' she still pleaded.
'We'll see--but of course I must do my duty.'
'No--don't do your duty!' She looked up at him through the gloom,illuminating her own face and eyes with the candle she held.
'I will consider, then,' said Mr. Raunham, sensibly moved. He turned hishorse's head, bade them a warm adieu, and left the door.
The rector of Carriford trotted homewards under the cold and clearMarch sky, its countless stars fluttering like bright birds. He wasunconscious of the scene. Recovering from the effect of Cytherea's voiceand glance of entreaty, he laid the subject of the interview cl
earlybefore himself.
The suspicions of Cytherea and Owen were honest, and hadfoundation--that he must own. Was he--a clergyman, magistrate, andconscientious man--justified in yielding to Cytherea's importunitiesto keep silence, because she dreaded the possibility of a return toManston? Was she wise in her request? Holding her present belief, andwith no definite evidence either way, she could, for one thing, neverconscientiously marry any one else. Suppose that Cytherea were Manston'swife--i.e., that the first wife was really burnt? The adultery ofManston would be proved, and, Mr. Raunham thought, cruelty sufficient tobring the case within the meaning of the statute. Suppose the new womanwas, as stated, Mr. Manston's restored wife? Cytherea was perfectly safeas a single woman whose marriage had been void. And if it turned outthat, though this woman was not Manston's wife, his wife was stillliving, as Owen had suggested, in America or elsewhere, Cytherea wassafe.
The first supposition opened up the worst contingency. Was she reallysafe as Manston's wife? Doubtful. But, however that might be, thegentle, defenceless girl, whom it seemed nobody's business to help ordefend, should be put in a track to proceed against this man. She hadbut one life, and the superciliousness with which all the world nowregarded her should be compensated in some measure by the man whosecarelessness--to set him in the best light--had caused it.
Mr. Raunham felt more and more positively that his duty must be done. Aninquiry must be made into the matter. Immediately on reaching home,he sat down and wrote a plain and friendly letter to Mr. Manston, anddespatched it at once to him by hand. Then he flung himself back inhis chair, and went on with his meditation. Was there anything in thesuspicion? There could be nothing, surely. Nothing is done by a cleverman without a motive, and what conceivable motive could Manston have forsuch abnormal conduct? Corinthian that he might be, who had preyed onvirginity like St. George's dragon, he would never have been absurdenough to venture on such a course for the possession alone of thewoman--there was no reason for it--she was inferior to Cytherea in everyrespect, physical and mental.
On the other hand, it seemed rather odd, when he analyzed the action,that a woman who deliberately hid herself from her husband for more thana twelvemonth should be brought back by a mere advertisement. In fact,the whole business had worked almost too smoothly and effectuallyfor unpremeditated sequence. It was too much like the indiscriminaterighting of everything at the end of an old play. And there was thatcurious business of the keys and watch. Her way of accounting for theirbeing left behind by forgetfulness had always seemed to him ratherforced. The only unforced explanation was that suggested by thenewspaper writers--that she left them behind on purpose to blind peopleas to her escape, a motive which would have clashed with the possibilityof her being fished back by an advertisement, as the present woman hadbeen. Again, there were the two charred bones. He shuffled the books andpapers in his study, and walked about the room, restlessly musing on thesame subject. The parlour-maid entered.
'Can young Mr. Springrove from London see you to-night, sir?'
'Young Mr. Springrove?' said the rector, surprised.
'Yes, sir.'
'Yes, of course he can see me. Tell him to come in.'
Edward came so impatiently into the room, as to show that the few shortmoments his announcement had occupied had been irksome to him. He stoodin the doorway with the same black bag in his hand, and the same oldgray cloak on his shoulders, that he had worn fifteen months earlierwhen returning on the night of the fire. This appearance of his conveyeda true impression he had become a stagnant man. But he was excited now.
'I have this moment come from London,' he said, as the door was closedbehind him.
The prophetic insight, which so strangely accompanies criticalexperiences, prompted Mr. Raunham's reply.
'About the Grayes and Manston?'
'Yes. That woman is not Mrs. Manston.'
'Prove it.'
'I can prove that she is somebody else--that her name is Anne Seaway.'
'And are their suspicions true indeed!'
'And I can do what's more to the purpose at present.'
'Suggest Manston's motive?'
'Only suggest it, remember. But my assumption fits so perfectly with thefacts that have been secretly unearthed and conveyed to me, that I canhardly conceive of another.'
There was in Edward's bearing that entire unconsciousness of himselfwhich, natural to wild animals, only prevails in a sensitive man atmoments of extreme intentness. The rector saw that he had no trivialstory to communicate, whatever the story was.
'Sit down,' said Mr. Raunham. 'My mind has been on the stretch all theevening to form the slightest guess at such an object, and all to nopurpose--entirely to no purpose. Have you said anything to Owen Graye?'
'Nothing--nor to anybody. I could not trust to the effect a letter mighthave upon yourself, either; the intricacy of the case brings me to thisinterview.'
Whilst Springrove had been speaking the two had sat down together. Theconversation, hitherto distinct to every corner of the room, was carriedon now in tones so low as to be scarcely audible to the interlocutors,and in phrases which hesitated to complete themselves. Three-quartersof an hour passed. Then Edward arose, came out of the rector's study andagain flung his cloak around him. Instead of going thence homeward,he went first to the Carriford Road Station with a telegram, havingdespatched which he proceeded to his father's house for the first timesince his arrival in the village.
3. FROM NINE TO TEN O'CLOCK P.M.
The next presentation is the interior of the Old House on the evening ofthe preceding section. The steward was sitting by his parlour fire, andhad been reading the letter arrived from the rectory. Opposite to himsat the woman known to the village and neighbourhood as Mrs. Manston.
'Things are looking desperate with us,' he said gloomily. His gloom wasnot that of the hypochondriac, but the legitimate gloom which has itsorigin in a syllogism. As he uttered the words he handed the letter toher.
'I almost expected some such news as this,' she replied, in a tone ofmuch greater indifference. 'I knew suspicion lurked in the eyes of thatyoung man who stared at me so in the church path: I could have swornit.'
Manston did not answer for some time. His face was worn and haggard;latterly his head had not been carried so uprightly as of old. 'If theyprove you to be--who you are.... Yes, if they do,' he murmured.
'They must not find that out,' she said, in a positive voice, andlooking at him. 'But supposing they do, the trick does not seem to me tobe so serious as to justify that wretched, miserable, horrible look ofyours. It makes my flesh creep; it is perfectly deathlike.'
He did not reply, and she continued, 'If they say and prove that Euniceis indeed living--and dear, you know she is--she is sure to come back.'
This remark seemed to awaken and irritate him to speech. Again, as hehad done a hundred times during their residence together, he categorizedthe events connected with the fire at the Three Tranters. He dwelt onevery incident of that night's history, and endeavoured, with an anxietywhich was extraordinary in the apparent circumstances, to prove that hiswife must, by the very nature of things, have perished in the flames.She arose from her seat, crossed the hearthrug, and set herself tosoothe him; then she whispered that she was still as unbelieving asever. 'Come, supposing she escaped--just supposing she escaped--where isshe?' coaxed the lady.
'Why are you so curious continually?' said Manston.
'Because I am a woman and want to know. Now where is she?'
'In the Flying Isle of San Borandan.'
'Witty cruelty is the cruellest of any. Ah, well--if she is in England,she will come back.'
'She is not in England.'
'But she will come back?'
'No, she won't.... Come, madam,' he said, arousing himself, 'I shall notanswer any more questions.'
'Ah--ah--ah--she is not dead,' the woman murmured again poutingly.
'She is, I tell you.'
'I don't think so, love.'
'She was
burnt, I tell you!' he exclaimed.
'Now to please me, admit the bare possibility of her being alive--justthe possibility.'
'O yes--to please you I will admit that,' he said quickly. 'Yes, I admitthe possibility of her being alive, to please you.'
She looked at him in utter perplexity. The words could only have beensaid in jest, and yet they seemed to savour of a tone the furthestremove from jesting. There was his face plain to her eyes, but noinformation of any kind was to be read there.
'It is only natural that I should be curious,' she murmured pettishly,'if I resemble her as much as you say I do.'
'You are handsomer,' he said, 'though you are about her own height andsize. But don't worry yourself. You must know that you are body and soulunited with me, though you are but my housekeeper.'
She bridled a little at the remark. 'Wife,' she said, 'most certainlywife, since you cannot dismiss me without losing your character andposition, and incurring heavy penalties.'
'I own it--it was well said, though mistakenly--very mistakenly.'
'Don't riddle to me about mistakenly and such dark things. Now what wasyour motive, dearest, in running the risk of having me here?'
'Your beauty,' he said.
'She thanks you much for the compliment, but will not take it. Come,what was your motive?'
'Your wit.'
'No, no; not my wit. Wit would have made a wife of me by this timeinstead of what I am.'
'Your virtue.'
'Or virtue either.'
'I tell you it was your beauty--really.'
'But I cannot help seeing and hearing, and if what people say is true, Iam not nearly so good-looking as Cytherea, and several years older.'
The aspect of Manston's face at these words from her was so confirmatoryof her hint, that his forced reply of 'O no,' tended to develop herchagrin.
'Mere liking or love for me,' she resumed, 'would not have sprung upall of a sudden, as your pretended passion did. You had been to Londonseveral times between the time of the fire and your marriage withCytherea--you had never visited me or thought of my existence or caredthat I was out of a situation and poor. But the week after you marriedher and were separated from her, off you rush to make love to me--notfirst to me either, for you went to several places--'
'No, not several places.'
'Yes, you told me so yourself--that you went first to the only lodgingin which your wife had been known as Mrs. Manston, and when you foundthat the lodging-house-keeper had gone away and died, and that nobodyelse in the street had any definite ideas as to your wife's personalappearance, and came and proposed the arrangement we carried out--that Ishould personate her. Your taking all this trouble shows that somethingmore serious than love had to do with the matter.'
'Humbug--what trouble after all did I take? When I found Cytherea wouldnot stay with me after the wedding I was much put out at being leftalone again. Was that unnatural?'
'No.'
'And those favouring accidents you mention--that nobody knew my firstwife--seemed an arrangement of Providence for our mutual benefit, andmerely perfected a half-formed impulse--that I should call you my firstwife to escape the scandal that would have arisen if you had come hereas anything else.'
'My love, that story won't do. If Mrs. Manston was burnt, Cytherea, whomyou love better than me, could have been compelled to live with you asyour lawful wife. If she was not burnt, why should you run the risk ofher turning up again at any moment and exposing your substitution of me,and ruining your name and prospects?'
'Why--because I might have loved you well enough to run the risk(assuming her not to be burnt, which I deny).'
'No--you would have run the risk the other way. You would rather haverisked her finding you with Cytherea as a second wife, than with me as apersonator of herself--the first one.'
'You came easiest to hand--remember that.'
'Not so very easy either, considering the labour you took to teachme your first wife's history. All about how she was a native ofPhiladelphia. Then making me read up the guide-book to Philadelphia, anddetails of American life and manners, in case the birthplace andhistory of your wife, Eunice, should ever become known in thisneighbourhood--unlikely as it was. Ah! and then about the handwriting ofhers that I had to imitate, and the dying my hair, and rouging, to makethe transformation complete? You mean to say that that was taking lesstrouble than there would have been in arranging events to make Cythereabelieve herself your wife, and live with you?'
'You were a needy adventuress, who would dare anything for a newpleasure and an easy life--and I was fool enough to give in to you--'
'Good heavens above!--did I ask you to insert those advertisements foryour old wife, and to make me answer it as if I was she? Did I ask youto send me the letter for me to copy and send back to you when the thirdadvertisement appeared--purporting to come from the long-lost wife, andgiving a detailed history of her escape and subsequent life--all whichyou had invented yourself? You deluded me into loving you, and thenenticed me here! Ah, and this is another thing. How did you know thereal wife wouldn't answer it, and upset all your plans?'
'Because I knew she was burnt.'
'Why didn't you force Cytherea to come back, then? Now, my love, I havecaught you, and you may just as well tell first as last, _what was yourmotive in having me here as your first wife_?'
'Silence!' he exclaimed.
She was silent for the space of two minutes, and then persisted in goingon to mutter, 'And why was it that Miss Aldclyffe allowed her favouriteyoung lady, Cythie, to be overthrown and supplanted without anexpostulation or any show of sympathy? Do you know I often think youexercise a secret power over Miss Aldclyffe. And she always shuns me asif I shared the power. A poor, ill-used creature like me sharing power,indeed!'
'She thinks you are Mrs. Manston.'
'That wouldn't make her avoid me.'
'Yes it would,' he exclaimed impatiently. 'I wish I was dead--dead!'He had jumped up from his seat in uttering the words, and now walkedwearily to the end of the room. Coming back more decisively, he lookedin her face.
'We must leave this place if Raunham suspects what I think he does,'he said. 'The request of Cytherea and her brother may simply be fora satisfactory proof, to make her feel legally free--but it may meanmore.'
'What may it mean?'
'How should I know?'
'Well, well, never mind, old boy,' she said, approaching him to make upthe quarrel. 'Don't be so alarmed--anybody would think that you were thewoman and I the man. Suppose they do find out what I am--we can go awayfrom here and keep house as usual. People will say of you, "His firstwife was burnt to death" (or "ran away to the Colonies," as the casemay be); "He married a second, and deserted her for Anne Seaway." A veryeveryday case--nothing so horrible, after all.'
He made an impatient movement. 'Whichever way we do it, _nobody mustknow that you are not my wife Eunice_. And now I must think aboutarranging matters.'
Manston then retired to his office, and shut himself up for theremainder of the evening.