Next morning the steward went out as usual. He shortly told his
companion, Anne, that he had almost matured their scheme, and that
they would enter upon the details of it when he came home at night. The
fortunate fact that the rector’s letter did not require an immediate
answer would give him time to consider.
Anne Seaway then began her duties in the house. Besides daily
superintending the cook and housemaid one of these duties was, at rare
intervals, to dust Manston’s office with her own hands, a servant being
supposed to disturb the books and papers unnecessarily. She softly
wandered from table to shelf with the duster in her hand, afterwards
standing in the middle of the room, and glancing around to discover if
any noteworthy collection of dust had still escaped her.
Her eye fell upon a faint layer which rested upon the ledge of an
old-fashioned chestnut cabinet of French Renaissance workmanship, placed
in a recess by the fireplace. At a height of about four feet from the
floor the upper portion of the front receded, forming the ledge alluded
to, on which opened at each end two small doors, the centre space
between them being filled out by a panel of similar size, making the
third of three squares. The dust on the ledge was nearly on a level with
the woman’s eye, and, though insignificant in quantity, showed itself
distinctly on account of this obliquity of vision. Now opposite the
central panel, concentric quarter-circles were traced in the deposited
film, expressing to her that this panel, too, was a door like the
others; that it had lately been opened, and had skimmed the dust with
its lower edge.
At last, then, her curiosity was slightly rewarded. For the right of the
matter was that Anne had been incited to this exploration of Manston’s
office rather by a wish to know the reason of his long seclusion
here, after the arrival of the rector’s letter, and their subsequent
discourse, than by any immediate desire for cleanliness. Still, there
would have been nothing remarkable to Anne in this sight but for one
recollection. Manston had once casually told her that each of the two
side-lockers included half the middle space, the panel of which did
not open, and was only put in for symmetry. It was possible that he had
opened this compartment by candlelight the preceding night, or he would
have seen the marks in the dust, and effaced them, that he might not
be proved guilty of telling her an untruth. She balanced herself on one
foot and stood pondering. She considered that it was very vexing and
unfair in him to refuse her all knowledge of his remaining secrets,
under the peculiar circumstances of her connection with him. She went
close to the cabinet. As there was no keyhole, the door must be capable
of being opened by the unassisted hand. The circles in the dust told her
at which edge to apply her force. Here she pulled with the tips of her
fingers, but the panel would not come forward. She fetched a chair and
looked over the top of the cabinet, but no bolt, knob, or spring was to
be seen.
‘O, never mind,’ she said, with indifference; ‘I’ll ask him about it,
and he will tell me.’ Down she came and turned away. Then looking back
again she thought it was absurd such a trifle should puzzle her.
She retraced her steps, and opened a drawer beneath the ledge of the
cabinet, pushing in her hand and feeling about on the underside of the
board.
Here she found a small round sinking, and pressed her finger into it.
Nothing came of the pressure. She withdrew her hand and looked at the
tip of her finger: it was marked with the impress of the circle, and, in
addition, a line ran across it diametrically.
‘How stupid of me; it is the head of a screw.’ Whatever mysterious
contrivance had originally existed for opening the puny cupboard of
the cabinet, it had at some time been broken, and this rough substitute
provided. Stimulated curiosity would not allow her to recede now. She
fetched a screwdriver, withdrew the screw, pulled the door open with a
penknife, and found inside a cavity about ten inches square. The cavity
contained--
Letters from different women, with unknown signatures, Christian names
only (surnames being despised in Paphos). Letters from his wife Eunice.
Letters from Anne herself, including that she wrote in answer to his
advertisement. A small pocket-book. Sundry scraps of paper.
The letters from the strange women with pet names she glanced carelessly
through, and then put them aside. They were too similar to her own
regretted delusion, and curiosity requires contrast to excite it.
The letters from his wife were next examined. They were dated back as
far as Eunice’s first meeting with Manston, and the early ones before
their marriage contained the usual pretty effusions of women at such a
period of their existence. Some little time after he had made her his
wife, and when he had come to Knapwater, the series began again, and
now their contents arrested her attention more forcibly. She closed the
cabinet, carried the letters into the parlour, reclined herself on the
sofa, and carefully perused them in the order of their dates.
‘JOHN STREET,
October 17, 1864.
‘MY DEAREST HUSBAND,--I received your hurried line of yesterday, and was
of course content with it. But why don’t you tell me your exact address
instead of that “Post-Office, Budmouth?” This matter is all a mystery to
me, and I ought to be told every detail. I cannot fancy it is the same
kind of occupation you have been used to hitherto. Your command that
I am to stay here awhile until you can “see how things look” and can
arrange to send for me, I must necessarily abide by. But if, as you say,
a married man would have been rejected by the person who engaged you,
and that hence my existence must be kept a secret until you have secured
your position, why did you think of going at all?
‘The truth is, this keeping our marriage a secret is troublesome,
vexing, and wearisome to me. I see the poorest woman in the street
bearing her husband’s name openly--living with him in the most
matter-of-fact ease, and why shouldn’t I? I wish I was back again in
Liverpool.
‘To-day I bought a grey waterproof cloak. I think it is a little too
long for me, but it was cheap for one of such a quality. The weather is
gusty and dreary, and till this morning I had hardly set foot outside
the door since you left. Please do tell me when I am to come.--Very
affectionately yours, EUNICE.’
‘JOHN STREET,
October 25, 1864.
‘MY DEAR HUSBAND,--Why don’t you write? Do you hate me? I have not had
the heart to do anything this last week. That I, your wife, should be in
this strait, and my husband well to do! I have been obliged to leave my
first lodging for debt--among other things, they charged me for a lot of
brandy which I am quite sure I did not taste. Then I went to Camberwell
and was found out by them. I went away privately from thence, and
changed my name the second time. I am now Mrs. Rondley. But the new
lodging was the wretchedest and dearest I ever set foot in, and I left
it after being there only a day. I am now at No. 20 in the same street
that you left me in originally. All last night the sash of my window
rattled so dreadfully that I could not sleep, but I had not energy
enough to get out of bed to stop it. This morning I have been walking--I
don’t know how far--but far enough to make my feet ache. I have been
looking at the outside of two or three of the theatres, but they seem
forbidding if I regard them with the eye of an actress in search of
an engagement. Though you said I was to think no more of the stage,
I believe you would not care if you found me there. But I am not an
actress by nature, and art will never make me one. I am too timid and
retiring; I was intended for a cottager’s wife. I certainly shall not
try to go on the boards again whilst I am in this strange place. The
idea of being brought on as far as London and then left here alone! Why
didn’t you leave me in Liverpool? Perhaps you thought I might have told
somebody that my real name was Mrs. Manston. As if I had a living friend
to whom I could impart it--no such good fortune! In fact, my nearest
friend is no nearer than what most people would call a stranger. But
perhaps I ought to tell you that a week before I wrote my last letter to
you, after wishing that my uncle and aunt in Philadelphia (the only near
relatives I had) were still alive, I suddenly resolved to send a line to
my cousin James, who, I believe, is still living in that neighbourhood.
He has never seen me since we were babies together. I did not tell him
of my marriage, because I thought you might not like it, and I gave my
real maiden name, and an address at the post-office here. But God knows
if the letter will ever reach him.
‘Do write me an answer, and send something.--Your affectionate wife,
EUNICE.’
‘FRIDAY, October 28.
‘MY DEAR HUSBAND,--The order for ten pounds has just come, and I am
truly glad to get it. But why will you write so bitterly? Ah--well, if
I had only had the money I should have been on my way to America by this
time, so don’t think I want to bore you of my own free-will. Who can
you have met with at that new place? Remember I say this in no malignant
tone, but certainly the facts go to prove that you have deserted me!
You are inconstant--I know it. O, why are you so? Now I have lost you, I
love you in spite of your neglect. I am weakly fond--that’s my nature.
I fear that upon the whole my life has been wasted. I know there is
another woman supplanting me in your heart--yes, I know it. Come to
me--do come. EUNICE.’
‘41 CHARLES SQUARE, HOXTON,
November 19.
‘DEAR AENEAS,--Here I am back again after my visit. Why should you have
been so enraged at my finding your exact address? Any woman would have
tried to do it--you know she would have. And no woman would have lived
under assumed names so long as I did. I repeat that I did not call
myself Mrs. Manston until I came to this lodging at the beginning of
this month--what could you expect?
‘A helpless creature I, had not fortune favoured me unexpectedly.
Banished as I was from your house at dawn, I did not suppose the
indignity was about to lead to important results. But in crossing the
park I overheard the conversation of a young man and woman who had also
risen early. I believe her to be the girl who has won you away from
me. Well, their conversation concerned you and Miss Aldclyffe, _very
peculiarly_. The remarkable thing is that you yourself, without knowing
it, told me of what, added to their conversation, completely reveals a
secret to me that neither of you understand. Two negatives never made
such a telling positive before. One clue more, and you would see it.
A single consideration prevents my revealing it--just one doubt as to
whether your ignorance was real, and was not feigned to deceive me.
Civility now, please. EUNICE.’
‘41 CHARLES SQUARE,
Tuesday, November 22.
‘MY DARLING HUSBAND,--Monday will suit me excellently for coming. I have
acted exactly up to your instructions, and have sold my rubbish at the
broker’s in the next street. All this movement and bustle is delightful
to me after the weeks of monotony I have endured. It is a relief to wish
the place good-bye--London always has seemed so much more foreign to
me than Liverpool The mid-day train on Monday will do nicely for me. I
shall be anxiously looking out for you on Sunday night.
‘I hope so much that you are not angry with me for writing to Miss
Aldclyffe. You are not, dear, are you? Forgive me.--Your loving wife,
EUNICE.’
This was the last of the letters from the wife to the husband. One
other, in Mrs. Manston’s handwriting, and in the same packet, was
differently addressed.
‘THREE TRANTERS INN, CARRIFORD,
November 28, 1864.
‘DEAR COUSIN JAMES,--Thank you indeed for answering my letter so
promptly. When I called at the post-office yesterday I did not in the
least think there would be one. But I must leave this subject. I write
again at once under the strangest and saddest conditions it is possible
to conceive.
‘I did not tell you in my last that I was a married woman. Don’t blame
me--it was my husband’s influence. I hardly know where to begin my
story. I had been living apart from him for a time--then he sent for me
(this was last week) and I was glad to go to him. Then this is what he
did. He promised to fetch me, and did not--leaving me to do the journey
alone. He promised to meet me at the station here--he did not. I went on
through the darkness to his house, and found his door locked and himself
away from home. I have been obliged to come here, and I write to you in
a strange room in a strange village inn! I choose the present moment to
write to drive away my misery. Sorrow seems a sort of pleasure when you
detail it on paper--poor pleasure though.
‘But this is what I want to know--and I am ashamed to tell it. I would
gladly do as you say, and come to you as a housekeeper, but I have
not the money even for a steerage passage. James, do you want me badly
enough--do you pity me enough to send it? I could manage to subsist in
London upon the proceeds of my sale for another month or six weeks. Will
you send it to the same address at the post-office? But how do I know
that you...’
Thus the letter ended. From creases in the paper it was plain that the
writer, having got so far, had become dissatisfied with her production,
and had crumpled it in her hand. Was it to write another, or not to
write at all?
The next thing Anne Seaway perceived was that the fragmentary story she
had coaxed out of Manston, to the effect that his wife had left England
for America, might be truthful, according to two of these letters,
corroborated by the evidence of the railway-porter. And yet, at first,
he had sworn in a passion that his wife was most certainly consumed in
the fire.
If she had been burnt, this letter, written in her bedroom, and probably
thrust into her pocket when she relinquished it, would have been burnt
with her. Nothing was surer than that. Why, then, did he say she was
burnt, and never show Anne herself this letter?
The question suddenly raised a new and much stranger one--kindling a
burst of amazement in her. How did Manston become possessed of this
letter?
That fact of possession was certainly the most remarkable revelation
of all in connection with this epistle, and perhaps had something to do
with his reason for never showing it to her.
She knew by several proofs, that before his marriage with Cytherea, and
up to the time of the porter’s confession, Manston believed--honestly
believed--that Cytherea would be his lawful wife, and hence, of course,
that his wife Eunice was dead. So that no communication could possibly
have passed between his wife and himself from the first moment that he
believed her dead on the night of the fire, to the day of his wedding.
And yet he had that letter. How soon afterwards could they have
communicated with each other?
The existence of the letter--as much as, or more than its
contents--implying that Mrs. Manston was not burnt, his belief in that
calamity must have terminated at the moment he obtained possession of
the letter, if no earlier. Was, then, the only solution to the riddle
that Anne could discern, the true one?--that he had communicated with
his wife somewhere about the commencement of Anne’s residence with him,
or at any time since?
It was the most unlikely thing on earth that a woman who had forsaken
her husband should countenance his scheme to personify her--whether she
were in America, in London, or in the neighbourhood of Knapwater.
Then came the old and harassing question, what was Manston’s real motive
in risking his name on the deception he was practising as regarded Anne.
It could not be, as he had always pretended, mere passion. Her thoughts
had reverted to Mr. Raunham’s letter, asking for proofs of her identity
with the original Mrs. Manston. She could see no loophole of escape
for the man who supported her. True, in her own estimation, his worst
alternative was not so very bad after all--the getting the name of
libertine, a possible appearance in the divorce or some other court
of law, and a question of damages. Such an exposure might hinder
his worldly progress for some time. Yet to him this alternative was,
apparently, terrible as death itself.
She restored the letters to their hiding-place, scanned anew the other
letters and memoranda, from which she could gain no fresh information,
fastened up the cabinet, and left everything in its former condition.
Her mind was ill at ease. More than ever she wished that she had never
seen Manston. Where the person suspected of mysterious moral obliquity
is the possessor of great physical and intellectual attractions, the
mere sense of incongruity adds an extra shudder to dread. The man’s
strange bearing terrified Anne as it had terrified Cytherea; for with
all the woman Anne’s faults, she had not descended to such depths of
depravity as to willingly participate in crime. She had not even known
that a living wife was being displaced till her arrival at Knapwater put
retreat out of the question, and had looked upon personation simply as
a mode of subsistence a degree better than toiling in poverty and alone,
after a bustling and somewhat pampered life as housekeeper in a gay
mansion.
‘Non illa colo calathisve Minervae
Foemineas assueta manus.’