Mr. Raunham and Edward Springrove had by this time set in motion a
machinery which they hoped to find working out important results.
The rector was restless and full of meditation all the following
morning. It was plain, even to the servants about him, that Springrove’s
communication wore a deeper complexion than any that had been made to
the old magistrate for many months or years past. The fact was that,
having arrived at the stage of existence in which the difficult
intellectual feat of suspending one’s judgment becomes possible, he was
now putting it in practice, though not without the penalty of watchful
effort.
It was not till the afternoon that he determined to call on his
relative, Miss Aldclyffe, and cautiously probe her knowledge of the
subject occupying him so thoroughly. Cytherea, he knew, was still
beloved by this solitary woman. Miss Aldclyffe had made several private
inquiries concerning her former companion, and there was ever a sadness
in her tone when the young lady’s name was mentioned, which showed that
from whatever cause the elder Cytherea’s renunciation of her favourite
and namesake proceeded, it was not from indifference to her fate.
‘Have you ever had any reason for supposing your steward anything but an
upright man?’ he said to the lady.
‘Never the slightest. Have you?’ said she reservedly.
‘Well--I have.’
‘What is it?’
‘I can say nothing plainly, because nothing is proved. But my suspicions
are very strong.’
‘Do you mean that he was rather cool towards his wife when they were
first married, and that it was unfair in him to leave her? I know he
was; but I think his recent conduct towards her has amply atoned for the
neglect.’
He looked Miss Aldclyffe full in the face. It was plain that she spoke
honestly. She had not the slightest notion that the woman who lived with
the steward might be other than Mrs. Manston--much less that a greater
matter might be behind.
‘That’s not it--I wish it was no more. My suspicion is, first, that the
woman living at the Old House is not Mr. Manston’s wife.’
‘Not--Mr. Manston’s wife?’
‘That is it.’
Miss Aldclyffe looked blankly at the rector. ‘Not Mr. Manston’s
wife--who else can she be?’ she said simply.
‘An improper woman of the name of Anne Seaway.’
Mr. Raunham had, in common with other people, noticed the extraordinary
interest of Miss Aldclyffe in the well-being of her steward, and had
endeavoured to account for it in various ways. The extent to which she
was shaken by his information, whilst it proved that the understanding
between herself and Manston did not make her a sharer of his secrets,
also showed that the tie which bound her to him was still unbroken. Mr.
Raunham had lately begun to doubt the latter fact, and now, on finding
himself mistaken, regretted that he had not kept his own counsel in the
matter. This it was too late to do, and he pushed on with his proofs. He
gave Miss Aldclyffe in detail the grounds of his belief.
Before he had done, she recovered the cloak of reserve that she had
adopted on his opening the subject.
‘I might possibly be convinced that you were in the right, after such an
elaborate argument,’ she replied, ‘were it not for one fact, which bears
in the contrary direction so pointedly, that nothing but absolute proof
can turn it. It is that there is no conceivable motive which
could induce any sane man--leaving alone a man of Mr. Manston’s
clear-headedness and integrity--to venture upon such an extraordinary
course of conduct--no motive on earth.’
‘That was my own opinion till after the visit of a friend last night--a
friend of mine and poor little Cytherea’s.’
‘Ah--and Cytherea,’ said Miss Aldclyffe, catching at the idea raised
by the name. ‘That he loved Cytherea--yes and loves her now, wildly and
devotedly, I am as positive as that I breathe. Cytherea is years younger
than Mrs. Manston--as I shall call her--twice as sweet in disposition,
three times as beautiful. Would he have given her up quietly and
suddenly for a common--Mr. Raunham, your story is monstrous, and I don’t
believe it!’ She glowed in her earnestness.
The rector might now have advanced his second proposition--the possible
motive--but for reasons of his own he did not.
‘Very well, madam. I only hope that facts will sustain you in your
belief. Ask him the question to his face, whether the woman is his wife
or no, and see how he receives it.’
‘I will to-morrow, most certainly,’ she said. ‘I always let these things
die of wholesome ventilation, as every fungus does.’
But no sooner had the rector left her presence, than the grain of
mustard-seed he had sown grew to a tree. Her impatience to set her
mind at rest could not brook a night’s delay. It was with the utmost
difficulty that she could wait till evening arrived to screen her
movements. Immediately the sun had dropped behind the horizon, and
before it was quite dark, she wrapped her cloak around her, softly left
the house, and walked erect through the gloomy park in the direction of
the old manor-house.
The same minute saw two persons sit down in the rectory-house to
share the rector’s usually solitary dinner. One was a man of official
appearance, commonplace in all except his eyes. The other was Edward
Springrove.
The discovery of the carefully-concealed letters rankled in the mind of
Anne Seaway. Her woman’s nature insisted that Manston had no right to
keep all matters connected with his lost wife a secret from herself.
Perplexity had bred vexation; vexation, resentment; curiosity had been
continuous. The whole morning this resentment and curiosity increased.
The steward said very little to his companion during their luncheon
at mid-day. He seemed reckless of appearances--almost indifferent to
whatever fate awaited him. All his actions betrayed that something
portentous was impending, and still he explained nothing. By carefully
observing every trifling action, as only a woman can observe them,
the thought at length dawned upon her that he was going to run away
secretly. She feared for herself; her knowledge of law and justice was
vague, and she fancied she might in some way be made responsible for
him.
In the afternoon he went out of the house again, and she watched him
drive away in the direction of the county-town. She felt a desire to go
there herself, and, after an interval of half-an-hour, followed him on
foot notwithstanding the distance--ostensibly to do some shopping.
One among her several trivial errands was to make a small purchase at
the druggist’s. Near the druggist’s stood the County Bank. Looking out
of the shop window, between the coloured bottles, she saw Manston come
down the steps of the bank, in the act of withdrawing his hand from his
pocket, and pulling his coat close over its mouth.
It is an almost universal habit with people, when leaving a bank, to be
carefully adjusting their pockets if they have been receiving money; if
they have been paying it in, their hands swing laxly. The steward had
in all likelihood been taking money--possibly on Miss Aldclyffe’s
account--that was continual with him. And he might have been removing
his own, as a man would do who was intending to leave the country.