It was on a Friday in this month of November that Owen Graye paid a
visit to his sister.
His zealous integrity still retained for him the situation at Budmouth,
and in order that there should be as little interruption as possible to
his duties there, he had decided not to come to Knapwater till late in
the afternoon, and to return to Budmouth by the first train the next
morning, Miss Aldclyffe having made a point of frequently offering him
lodging for an unlimited period, to the great pleasure of Cytherea.
He reached the house about four o’clock, and ringing the bell, asked of
the page who answered it for Miss Graye.
When Graye spoke the name of his sister, Manston, who was just coming
out from an interview with Miss Aldclyffe, passed him in the vestibule
and heard the question. The steward’s face grew hot, and he secretly
clenched his hands. He half crossed the court, then turned his head and
saw that the lad still stood at the door, though Owen had been shown
into the house. Manston went back to him.
‘Who was that man?’ he said.
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Has he ever been here before?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How many times?’
‘Three.’
‘You are sure you don’t know him?’
‘I think he is Miss Graye’s brother, sir.’
‘Then, why the devil didn’t you say so before!’ Manston exclaimed, and
again went on his way.
‘Of course, that was not the man of my dreams--of course, it couldn’t
be!’ he said to himself. ‘That I should be such a fool--such an utter
fool. Good God! to allow a girl to influence me like this, day after
day, till I am jealous of her very brother. A lady’s dependent, a waif,
a helpless thing entirely at the mercy of the world; yes, curse it; that
is just why it is; that fact of her being so helpless against the blows
of circumstances which renders her so deliciously sweet!’
He paused opposite his house. Should he get his horse saddled? No.
He went down the drive and out of the park, having started to proceed to
an outlying spot on the estate concerning some draining, and to call at
the potter’s yard to make an arrangement for the supply of pipes. But a
remark which Miss Aldclyffe had dropped in relation to Cytherea was
what still occupied his mind, and had been the immediate cause of his
excitement at the sight of her brother. Miss Aldclyffe had meaningly
remarked during their intercourse, that Cytherea was wildly in love with
Edward Springrove, in spite of his engagement to his cousin Adelaide.
‘How I am harassed!’ he said aloud, after deep thought for half-an-hour,
while still continuing his walk with the greatest vehemence. ‘How I am
harassed by these emotions of mine!’ He calmed himself by an effort.
‘Well, duty after all it shall be, as nearly as I can effect it.
“Honesty is the best policy;”’ with which vigorously uttered resolve
he once more attempted to turn his attention to the prosy object of his
journey.
The evening had closed in to a dark and dreary night when the steward
came from the potter’s door to proceed homewards again. The gloom did
not tend to raise his spirits, and in the total lack of objects to
attract his eye, he soon fell to introspection as before. It was along
the margin of turnip fields that his path lay, and the large leaves of
the crop struck flatly against his feet at every step, pouring upon them
the rolling drops of moisture gathered upon their broad surfaces; but
the annoyance was unheeded. Next reaching a fir plantation, he mounted
the stile and followed the path into the midst of the darkness produced
by the overhanging trees.
After walking under the dense shade of the inky boughs for a few
minutes, he fancied he had mistaken the path, which as yet was scarcely
familiar to him. This was proved directly afterwards by his coming
at right angles upon some obstruction, which careful feeling with
outstretched hands soon told him to be a rail fence. However, as the
wood was not large, he experienced no alarm about finding the path
again, and with some sense of pleasure halted awhile against the rails,
to listen to the intensely melancholy yet musical wail of the fir-tops,
and as the wind passed on, the prompt moan of an adjacent plantation in
reply. He could just dimly discern the airy summits of the two or
three trees nearest him waving restlessly backwards and forwards, and
stretching out their boughs like hairy arms into the dull sky. The
scene, from its striking and emphatic loneliness, began to grow
congenial to his mood; all of human kind seemed at the antipodes.
A sudden rattle on his right hand caused him to start from his reverie,
and turn in that direction. There, before him, he saw rise up from among
the trees a fountain of sparks and smoke, then a red glare of light
coming forward towards him; then a flashing panorama of illuminated
oblong pictures; then the old darkness, more impressive than ever.
The surprise, which had owed its origin to his imperfect acquaintance
with the topographical features of that end of the estate, had been but
momentary; the disturbance, a well-known one to dwellers by a railway,
being caused by the 6.50 down-train passing along a shallow cutting
in the midst of the wood immediately below where he stood, the driver
having the fire-door of the engine open at the minute of going by. The
train had, when passing him, already considerably slackened speed, and
now a whistle was heard, announcing that Carriford Road Station was not
far in its van.
But contrary to the natural order of things, the discovery that it
was only a commonplace train had not caused Manston to stir from his
position of facing the railway.
If the 6.50 down-train had been a flash of forked lightning transfixing
him to the earth, he could scarcely have remained in a more trance-like
state. He still leant against the railings, his right hand still
continued pressing on his walking-stick, his weight on one foot, his
other heel raised, his eyes wide open towards the blackness of the
cutting. The only movement in him was a slight dropping of the lower
jaw, separating his previously closed lips a little way, as when a
strange conviction rushes home suddenly upon a man. A new surprise, not
nearly so trivial as the first, had taken possession of him.
It was on this account. At one of the illuminated windows of a
second-class carriage in the series gone by, he had seen a pale face,
reclining upon one hand, the light from the lamp falling full upon it.
The face was a woman’s.
At last Manston moved; gave a whispering kind of whistle, adjusted his
hat, and walked on again, cross-questioning himself in every direction
as to how a piece of knowledge he had carefully concealed had found its
way to another person’s intelligence. ‘How can my address have become
known?’ he said at length, audibly. ‘Well, it is a blessing I have been
circumspect and honourable, in relation to that--yes, I will say it, for
once, even if the words choke me, that darling of mine, Cytherea, never
to be my own, never. I suppose all will come out now. All!’ The great
sadness of his utterance proved that no mean force had been exercised
upon himself to sustain the circumspection he had just claimed.
He wheeled to the left, pursued the ditch beside the railway fence, and
presently emerged from the wood, stepping into a road which crossed the
railway by a bridge.
As he neared home, the anxiety lately written in his face, merged by
degrees into a grimly humorous smile, which hung long upon his lips, and
he quoted aloud a line from the book of Jeremiah--
‘A woman shall compass a man.’