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.
The first thing he did the next morning was to call at Knapwater House;
where he found that Miss Aldclyffe was not well enough to see him.
She had been ailing from slight internal haemorrhage ever since the
confession of the porter Chinney. Apparently not much aggrieved at the
denial, he shortly afterwards went to the railway-station and took his
departure for London, leaving a letter for Miss Aldclyffe, stating the
reason of his journey thither--to recover traces of his missing wife.
During the remainder of the week paragraphs appeared in the local and
other newspapers, drawing attention to the facts of this singular case.
The writers, with scarcely an exception, dwelt forcibly upon a feature
which had at first escaped the observation of the villagers, including
Mr. Raunham--that if the announcement of the man Chinney were true,
it seemed extremely probable that Mrs. Manston left her watch and keys
behind on purpose to blind people as to her escape; and that therefore
she would not now let herself be discovered, unless a strong pressure
were put upon her. The writers added that the police were on the track
of the porter, who very possibly had absconded in the fear that his
reticence was criminal, and that Mr. Manston, the husband, was, with
praiseworthy energy, making every effort to clear the whole matter up.