1. FROM THE SIXTH TO THE THIRTEENTH OF JANUARY
Manston had evidently resolved to do nothing in a hurry.
This much was plain, that his earnest desire and intention was to raise in Cytherea's bosom no feelings of permanent aversion to him.
The instant after the first burst of disappointment had escaped him in the hotel at Southampton, he had seen how far better it would be to lose her presence for a week than her respect for ever.
'She shall be mine; I will claim the young thing yet,' he insisted.
And then he seemed to reason over methods for compassing that object, which, to all those who were in any degree acquainted with the recent event, appeared the least likely of possible contingencies.
He returned to Knapwater late the next day, and was preparing to call on Miss Aldclyffe, when the conclusion forced itself upon him that nothing would be gained by such a step. No; every action of his should be done openly--even religiously. At least, he called on the rector, and stated this to be his resolve.
'Certainly,' said Mr. Raunham, 'it is best to proceed candidly and fairly, or undue suspicion may fall on you. You should, in my opinion, take active steps at once.'
'I will do the utmost that lies in my power to clear up the mystery, and silence the hubbub of gossip that has been set going about me.
But what can I do? They say that the man who comes first in the chain of inquiry is not to be found--I mean the porter.'
'I am sorry to say that he is not. When I returned from the station last night, after seeing Owen Graye off, I went again to the cottage where he has been lodging, to get more intelligence, as I thought.
He was not there. He had gone out at dusk, saying he would be back soon. But he has not come back yet.'
'I rather doubt if we shall see him again.'
'Had I known of this, I would have done what in my flurry I did not think of doing--set a watch upon him. But why not advertise for your missing wife as a preliminary, consulting your solicitor in the meantime?'
'Advertise. I'll think about it,' said Manston, lingering on the word as he pronounced it. 'Yes, that seems a right thing--quite a right thing.'
He went home and remained moodily indoors all the next day and the next--for nearly a week, in short. Then, one evening at dusk, he went out with an uncertain air as to the direction of his walk, which resulted, however, in leading him again to the rectory.
He saw Mr. Raunham. 'Have you done anything yet?' the rector inquired.
'No--I have not,' said Manston absently. 'But I am going to set about it.' He hesitated, as if ashamed of some weakness he was about to betray. 'My object in calling was to ask if you had heard any tidings from Budmouth of my--Cytherea. You used to speak of her as one you were interested in.'
There was, at any rate, real sadness in Manston's tone now, and the rector paused to weigh his words ere he replied.
'I have not heard directly from her,' he said gently. 'But her brother has communicated with some people in the parish--'
'The Springroves, I suppose,' said Manston gloomily.
'Yes; and they tell me that she is very ill, and I am sorry to say, likely to be for some days.'
'Surely, surely, I must go and see her!' Manston cried.
'I would advise you not to go,' said Raunham. 'But do this instead--be as quick as you can in making a movement towards ascertaining the truth as regards the existence of your wife. You see, Mr. Manston, an out-step place like this is not like a city, and there is nobody to busy himself for the good of the community; whilst poor Cytherea and her brother are socially too dependent to be able to make much stir in the matter, which is a greater reason still why you should be disinterestedly prompt.'
The steward murmured an assent. Still there was the same indecision!--not the indecision of weakness--the indecision of conscious perplexity.
On Manston's return from this interview at the rectory, he passed the door of the Rising Sun Inn. Finding he had no light for his cigar, and it being three-quarters of a mile to his residence in the park, he entered the tavern to get one. Nobody was in the outer portion of the front room where Manston stood, but a space round the fire was screened off from the remainder, and inside the high oak settle, forming a part of the screen, he heard voices conversing.
The speakers had not noticed his footsteps, and continued their discourse.
One of the two he recognized as a well-known night-poacher, the man who had met him with tidings of his wife's death on the evening of the conflagration. The other seemed to be a stranger following the same mode of life. The conversation was carried on in the emphatic and confidential tone of men who are slightly intoxicated, its subject being an unaccountable experience that one of them had had on the night of the fire.
What the steward heard was enough, and more than enough, to lead him to forget or to renounce his motive in entering. The effect upon him was strange and strong. His first object seemed to be to escape from the house again without being seen or heard.
Having accomplished this, he went in at the park gate, and strode off under the trees to the Old House. There sitting down by the fire, and burying himself in reflection, he allowed the minutes to pass by unheeded. First the candle burnt down in its socket and stunk: he did not notice it. Then the fire went out: he did not see it. His feet grew cold; still he thought on.
It may be remarked that a lady, a year and a quarter before this time, had, under the same conditions--an unrestricted mental absorption--shown nearly the same peculiarities as this man evinced now. The lady was Miss Aldclyffe.
It was half-past twelve when Manston moved, as if he had come to a determination.
