He called at three several houses in this neighbourhood, with the same result as before. He entered the door of the fourth house whilst the clock of the nearest church was striking eight.
'Have a tall gentleman named Manston, and a young wife arrived here this evening?' he asked again, in words which had grown odd to his ears from very familiarity.
'A new-married couple, did you say?'
'They are, though I didn't say so.'
'They have taken a sitting-room and bedroom, number thirteen.'
'Are they indoors?'
'I don't know. Eliza!'
'Yes, m'm.'
'See if number thirteen is in--that gentleman and his wife.'
'Yes, m'm.'
'Has any telegram come for them?' said Edward, when the maid had gone on her errand.
'No--nothing that I know of.'
'Somebody did come and ask if a Mr. and Mrs. Masters, or some such name, were here this evening,' said another voice from the back of the bar-parlour.
'And did they get the message?'
'Of course they did not--they were not here--they didn't come till half-an-hour after that. The man who made inquiries left no message. I told them when they came that they, or a name something like theirs, had been asked for, but they didn't seem to understand why it should be, and so the matter dropped.'
The chambermaid came back. 'The gentleman is not in, but the lady is. Who shall I say?'
'Nobody,' said Edward. For it now became necessary to reflect upon his method of proceeding. His object in finding their whereabouts--apart from the wish to assist Owen--had been to see Manston, ask him flatly for an explanation, and confirm the request of the message in the presence of Cytherea--so as to prevent the possibility of the steward's palming off a story upon Cytherea, or eluding her brother when he came. But here were two important modifications of the expected condition of affairs. The telegram had not been received, and Cytherea was in the house alone.
He hesitated as to the propriety of intruding upon her in Manston's absence. Besides, the women at the bottom of the stairs would see him--his intrusion would seem odd--and Manston might return at any moment. He certainly might call, and wait for Manston with the accusation upon his tongue, as he had intended. But it was a doubtful course. That idea had been based upon the assumption that Cytherea was not married. If the first wife were really dead after all--and he felt sick at the thought--Cytherea as the steward's wife might in after-years--perhaps, at once--be subjected to indignity and cruelty on account of an old lover's interference now.
Yes, perhaps the announcement would come most properly and safely for her from her brother Owen, the time of whose arrival had almost expired.
But, on turning round, he saw that the staircase and passage were quite deserted. He and his errand had as completely died from the minds of the attendants as if they had never been. There was absolutely nothing between him and Cytherea's presence. Reason was powerless now; he must see her--right or wrong, fair or unfair to Manston--offensive to her brother or no. His lips must be the first to tell the alarming story to her. Who loved her as he! He went back lightly through the hall, up the stairs, two at a time, and followed the corridor till he came to the door numbered thirteen.
He knocked softly: nobody answered.
There was no time to lose if he would speak to Cytherea before Manston came. He turned the handle of the door and looked in. The lamp on the table burned low, and showed writing materials open beside it; the chief light came from the fire, the direct rays of which were obscured by a sweet familiar outline of head and shoulders--still as precious to him as ever.
7. A QUARTER-PAST EIGHT O'CLOCK P.M.
There is an attitude--approximatively called pensive--in which the soul of a human being, and especially of a woman, dominates outwardly and expresses its presence so strongly, that the intangible essence seems more apparent than the body itself. This was Cytherea's expression now. What old days and sunny eves at Budmouth Bay was she picturing? Her reverie had caused her not to notice his knock.
'Cytherea!' he said softly.
She let drop her hand, and turned her head, evidently thinking that her visitor could be no other than Manston, yet puzzled at the voice.
There was no preface on Springrove's tongue; he forgot his position--hers--that he had come to ask quietly if Manston had other proofs of being a widower--everything--and jumped to a conclusion.
'You are not his wife, Cytherea--come away, he has a wife living!' he cried in an agitated whisper. 'Owen will be here directly.'
She started up, recognized the tidings first, the bearer of them afterwards. 'Not his wife? O, what is it--what--who is living?'
She awoke by degrees. 'What must I do? Edward, it is you! Why did you come? Where is Owen?'
'What has Manston shown you in proof of the death of his other wife?
Tell me quick.'
'Nothing--we have never spoken of the subject. Where is my brother Owen? I want him, I want him!'
'He is coming by-and-by. Come to the station to meet him--do,' implored Springrove. 'If Mr. Manston comes, he will keep you from me: I am nobody,' he added bitterly, feeling the reproach her words had faintly shadowed forth.
'Mr. Manston is only gone out to post a letter he has just written,' she said, and without being distinctly cognizant of the action, she wildly looked for her bonnet and cloak, and began putting them on, but in the act of fastening them uttered a spasmodic cry.
'No, I'll not go out with you,' she said, flinging the articles down again. Running to the door she flitted along the passage, and downstairs.
'Give me a private room--quite private,' she said breathlessly to some one below.
'Number twelve is a single room, madam, and unoccupied,' said some tongue in astonishment.
Without waiting for any person to show her into it, Cytherea hurried upstairs again, brushed through the corridor, entered the room specified, and closed the door. Edward heard her sob out--'Nobody but Owen shall speak to me--nobody!'
